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BY ROBERT RAE. 

A MEMBER OF THE CHICAGO BAR, 



•-•••••«*«iS%*^i^^:^;pia:s^s^*<<i)^ 



CHICAGO : 

HAZLITT & REED, PRINTERS, 1 72 AND I74 CLARK STREET. 
1877. 



NE\^^PORT: 



A PLAY IN SIX ACTS. 



/ 

BY ROBERT R^E, 

^A MEMBER OF THE CHICAGO BAR. 



CHICAGO : 

HAZLITT & REED, PRINTERS, 1 72 AND 1 74 CLARK STREET. 
1877. 



3^ 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, 

By ROBERT RAE, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 

All rights reserved. 



T.MP96-0075C8 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 



Old Wiloughby, Father of Julia. 

Mr. Roseallen, Father of Matilda. 

Col. Alex.\ndeii Montrose, in love with Matilda. 

Dr. Frank Merrilies, in love with Julia. 

Bob Summers}, in love with Kate. 

Alfred Bartlett, Widower, in love with Mrs. Cummings 

Charles, a Beau. 

Clarence, a Beau. 

Walter, a Beau. 

Arthur, a Beau. 

J. FiLBY, Tailor. 

1st Bailiff. 

2d Bailiff. 

GEORGE TEMPLETON, Landscape Gardener. 

Mrs. Roseallen, Mother of Matilda. 

MATILDA ROSEALLEN. 

Julia Willoughby. 

Kate Spring.] 

Violet, a Belle. 

Nellie, a Belle. 

Maria, a Belle. 

Lizzie, a Belle. 

Mrs. Cummings, a Widow. 

Bertha, Governante to Matilda. 

Footmen, Maids, et al. , 

Scene — Newport, R. I. 



NEV/PORT. 



ACT I. 



Scene. — Newport. Kate, Lizzie, Nellie, Yiolet, Makia. 
Young ladies in croquet costume/ archery. Eoseallen's 
Garden/ lawn party. Band heard playing. 

Kate. 1 declare, Newport is so stupid. It is made up 
of fops and fossils — old gentlemen with glow-worm noses, 
which have stood sentinel over many a glass of crusted port 
and sherry, and old ladies full of pearls and perspiration, 
and for eveiy wrinkle a ringlet. 

Lizzie. Newport is breakfast, dinner, and wheels — foot- 
man and butler; everything is a heavy swell except the surf. 
What shall we light on, girls? {All sing, and wdltz as 
they sing, 

Oh, dear ! what will become of us ? 

Oh, clear! what shall we do? 
We'll die of the blue vapors, every one of us. 

Unless we can find us a beau.) 

The dinners are so solemn, that I do declare the champagne 
corks look as though they would like to pop back, and save 
the sparkle for more merry guests. 

Nellie. Ma says "that it is so much more respectable " 
to say that one spent the summer at Newport than at that 
dashing, rollicking place, Saratoga, or that jockey, stunning, 
delicious place. Long Branch; and so it is, if one is supposed 
to be good only when she's asleep. "Oh, solitude! where 
are thy charms?" But I don't come to Newport to look 
after the charms of solitude, but to display my own. I 
don't want to blush unseen. 



6 

Lizzie. I wish I could see something or somebody to 
bhish at or with. Why, I think the gardens of Newport 
must have had women planted in them before men, and a 
long time, too. I don't wonder at Eve's looking into the 
stream to find something; and if she had not discovered 
her Adam tending his sheep in the distance, I fear she 
would be fishing at its banks 'til now. I am bound to find 
a beau, by hook or by crook. I wonder if Adam was as old 
a man when Eve first saw him as the pater families we 
have to ride with here, and moon over at whist, when we 
might be spinning like tops in those beautiful new waltzes 
, that Clara Saltare writes about from Saratoga, if we only 
had the boys to spin us. 

Maria. Spinsters are no ver}^ great favorites with the 
boys, you know; and that's the reason, I fear, that they are 
not here to spin us. What benevolent statesmen those 
Spartans were who condemned to death all people too old 
to dance or to be useful. By the bye, girls, let's see if we 
can't find something to talk about, if we can't find some- 
thing to do. 

Kate. Let's talk about what all New York talked about 
last winter, and sighed about, too, at least so far as the male 
population were concerned. 

Lizzie. You mean Matilda Roseallen, of course. Let's 
talk of something else. As men are said to be wolves to 
each other, one pretty woman is a mold to another. 

Nellie. You know she is here at her father's cottage, or 
castle, for it is not only the loveliest spot on earth, but it is 
the most magnificent. 

Yioi.ET. Then look out for the king bees; where both 
sweetness and summer are, there will you find them, too. 

Enter Julia, r. c. 

Julia. Girls, good news! Who do you think pa saw 
this morning, dressed like an English sportsman, with that 
little dog of his? Who but Dr. Frank Merrilie, the Achates 



to that wittj young lawyer, Kobert Summer. What do 
you think of that, Kate? 

(All, Oh, Julia! Julia!) 
Kate. / should say that Dr. Frank Merrilie is a hand- 
some dandy, with an honest heart — knight of the pestle 
and mortar, and cavalier to Miss Julia Willoughby, if you 
please. 

Nellie. Now, here's a chance for you, Julia, to send for 
Frank, and ask him to feel your pulse and look at your lips, 
and tell you how salt water and sea air and solitary confine- 
ment agree with you at Newport. 

Julia. Bob Summer is a lawyer of repute, and I heard 
him tell Kate that it took two or more to agree. I can't 
see, then, how the sea can agree with me. Old Neptune is 
already married — Amphitrite w^ill give us a ducking if we 
flirt with her goose. But that is not all ; he told pa that 
Bob Summer was with him, and that they were expecting a 
jolly time on the bay (in a jolly boat, no doubt). Pa asked 
them where they were staying; Frank said that Bob was 
not satisfied with the quarters at the hotel, and would take 
up more suitable accommodations, as he was now admitted 
to the practice of law. 

Lizzie. Well, Bob must now be able to raise the wind, 
since he has become a dedicated beggar to the air. 

Julia. As the boys are new practitioners, and have 
nothing except "great expectations" from their talents, 
they are not regarded by pa as good catches, although I 
should think that they might be so accepted, as they will 
catch at almost anything. Pa has not invited them to come 
to the house; but we can get up a little picnic, and invite 
them to meet us hy chance at the trysting place. 

(All, Agreed ! agreed !) 
Nellie. Who will write the note ; ym^, Julia? 
Kate. You're used to it. You know it comes so natural 
to say "Dear Frank." 



Julia. That's easily done. Jeems, fetch me paper and 
pencil. {Footman hrings articles to Jiilia, who writes.) 

Violet. What do you say, young ladies, to these grounds 
near the little cottage of Mrs. Cummings, the garden in 
rear of Roseallen's place, it is so private? You know it is 
so full of romance and mystery about the young cavalier — 
the Southern Hotspur and Ronieo — who is beautifying the 
grounds. 

Nellie. This is indeed a lovely place, since his spade 
has carved from the face of nature the sweetest features that 
ever smiled among the perfume of flowers or grew glad at 
the song of birds. If we could get up a flirtation with him, 
it would make something to talk about, and perhaps sigh 
about, for the next twenty-four hours. Well, as you make 
no objections, these garden grounds shall be the place. 

Julia. Well, here's the note, girls; and now let's go and 
practice some rustic songs for our picnic. 

Exeunt, r. 

Enter Bertha, governante to Matilda ; Col. Alexander 
Montrose, ex-officer U. S. A., and gambler, in love ^witTi 
Matilda, r. c. 

Bertha. Well, Colonel, I have made every effort to 
excite some feeling of attachment on the part of Matilda for 
you. I fear my praises go for nothing. She is so gentle 
in her nature that she always listens with respect, and some- 
times when I tell her of some fancied act of yours, of either 
generosity or courage, she seems to pity you for a moment; 
but I fear her heart is entirely fancy free, and that no praises 
of mine will ever awaken any softer chord in her heart. It 
was easier for me to teach her the French verb arnier than 
to teach her qui amier — whom to love ; besides, I fear she 
is too pure and innocent for a wicked man like you. Some 
angel guards her, and drives away each thing of sin and 
guilt. Her father, too, knows of your vice of gambling, 
and has forbidden Matilda to ever see you more, and never 



9 

to listen to your professions of love. She is a dutiful 
daughter, and would rather die than not honor her father 
and mother. 

Montrose. Yes, Bertha, I feel that she is not only 
indifferent, but feels something like an active aversion to 
me. Guarded as I have been in my speech, I fear that now 
and then I drop some word that smells to heaven, for she at 
times suddenly withdraws herself, and her eyes flash as if 
she were indignant. She's not proud, but yet at such times 
her blood bounds through her veins into her cheek, and her 
lip curls, as if she were the proudest she alive. The more 
she rejects my passion, the wilder and fiercer it ra|es, 'til 
in the madness of desperation I almost resolve to gain by' 
fraud and guile w4iat her gentle heart denies to my persua- 
sion and most earnest supplication. 

Bertha. Well, I'll do what I can; but I fear that my 
commendations of you fall upon my young mistress' ears 
like the tuneless notes of the birds that, unfitted to be of 
the choir of the forest, perch upon the porch of her lattice. 

Montrose. The most provoking thing is, I cannot get a 
personal interview with her, else I might invent some story 
which would touch and melt her to pity me; and after that 
the road to love is smooth and easy. She seems to avoid 
me. Can you tell. Bertha, how I can flush this coy dove? 

Bertha. You know the rustic bridge that spans the 
little brook that babbles by the foot of the meadow in the 
rear of her father's hall? Beyond, you perceive, there 
stands a group of tall and graceful elms, surrounded by a 
fragrant thicket of low shrubbeiy and roses. Amid this 
cluster of trees is a small bower, which was built for the 
sake of Matilda, and in which she often sits, listening to 
the songs of the birds, caressing her spaniel, or reading her 
favorite authors, Tennyson and Shelley. You might manage 
to surprise her there, and then plead your cause with such 
sorcery as best will move her. 
2 



10 

Montrose. Thanks, Bertha, for this hint; it may be 
useful to me. Here's a present of a collar — never mind 
looking at it noio — and here's a purse, the contents of 
which may interest you. I will go, to act upon your hint. 

Bertha. And / to Matilda, to practice upon her my 
arts. Exit^ Montrose r., Bertha l. 

Enter J. Filby, with Stitch, the footman^ carrying clothes^ 
R.j Bailiffs l. 

1st Baiijff. "Well, we got the judgment against Summer, 
and the affidavy that he is not a citizen of Ehody; you can 
arrest him, you know, and make him give bail. You do not 
mean to incarcerate him? 

Yihwi {tailor). Surely! surely! Don't give him a minute 
beyond his time. These limbs of the law sometimes must 
be shot by an arrow from their own quiver. Let me see, 
what were the articles charged ? {Zooks at hill from side 
pocket.) Yes, " an extra superfine saxony, blue, richly 
bound, etc., frock coat, etc., etc., |i65, due June 1st;" and it 
is now July — a month past due. Nab him, Mr. Bailiff, 
nab the villain, and we will give him six months of the 
cage, at any rate, and that will be some satisfaction. 

1st Bailiff. I only saw him once. 

FiLBT. Oh, that's easily suited, although you don't know 
the frock coat. Here, Stitch {takes coat off Stitch's arm); 
see, here is the neighbor to it. La, it is one of a thousand ! 
The only one of the same cut and fashion in the city; that 
I know. I could pick it out blind fi-om among a million. 
Here is his address — Sleeps at No. 60 Turo street, and 
gets free lunches, as a light diner out.. 

1st Bailiff. All right, sir. As soon as the bird is caged 
I will send you word. 

Exeunt, Filby and Stitch l.. Bailiffs r. 

Enter Frank Merrilie, l., dressed smartly. 

Frank. Well, I have studied pretty hard all winter 



11 

over nasty names and nasty tasting things, and its some 
relief to find a contrast. Mermaids and dolphins! what a 
lucky thing to run across old "Willoughby yesterday. Old 
fellow's very cordial in the street — very glad to see me in 
the street; wonder, if it makes him so glad to see me in the 
street, with what bewildering feelings of delight he would 
be seized if he saw me in his parlor? The ancient is pretty 
stout about the neck and thorax. Afraid to ask me, no 
doubt, for fear that the delirium of rapture at seeing me 
there might bring on a spell of apoplexy. Good livers 
must take good care of themselves; and if they are rich, 
they think that they must .take deuced good care of their 
daughters, too. By the bye, Julia is worth taking care of. 
If the old gent is not equal to the task, I wish he would 
put her in my hands, as a physician, you know; medicine 
mild, but effective. Sweet spirits of nit-er! I will make the 
application myself, and often. {Taking out a photograph 
and looking at it.) She is peerless! She must -know that 
I love her; yet she gives me no assurance that these tender 
feelings are reciprocated. Nothing but the ordinary cour- 
tesies have as yet passed between us; yet she is a sensible 
girl, and as such can't be entirely indifferent to what 
"charms and drugs" — bon bons — I have sought to win 

his daughter wi th {Jeems enters with a note.) What's 

here? Good morning, Jeems; how is your young mistress? 

Jeems. Very well. She sent me with this note to you. 

Fkank. a note, and from Julia! {Reads.) 

" Deak Mr, Merrilie: Would you make one of a party 
to a picnic to-morrow? I should be happy if you could. 
There will be several young ladies of my acquaintance with 
us; and we hope one or two gentlemen may stroll there ' by 
chance' (?). We purpose meeting at widow Cummings' at 
twelve o'clock precisely. It will particularly gratify me if 
you can make it convenient to make one of the party, etc., 
etc. [Julia Willoughby." 



12 

Dear, delightful creature! {Kissing the note.) Make it 
convenient? Ay, that I will, adored and beloved Julia, 
although ten thousand difficulties M^ere in my way. All 
engagements, all considerations, all duties, light of my life, 
idol of my adoration, must give way to thy slightest wish. 
"It will particularly gratify me." {Iri ecstacy.) Will it! 
will it! Oh, will it! Then I am a happy man indeed. 
( Waltzing up and doion. At last his eyes fall on his coat 
sleeve.) Ha! getting scuffy, by all that's annoying. Had 
no idea! Won't do, won't do, that's clear. Can never go 
over hill and dale with Julia and her fair bevy of acquaint- 
ances in such a coat as this;. never, never, never. {Sits 
down and clasps his head, in his hands., and then remem,- 
l)e7's.) There is a tide, in the aifairs of men, which, when 
taken at the flood, leads on to fortune and to Julia, and that 
flood is a new coat. How vexatiously strange that I should 
have thought of a breakfast coat, a walking coat and a dress 
coat; but a frock coat comme il faut for Sifete chaonpctre 
is entirely overlooked. No time to telegrapli to Sheers and 
get a coat in reply. It is past surgery. A nimble surgical 
operation might cut the coat, but it requires time to stitch 
it. It is a sheer case of necessity, and I must borrow. I 
have it ! I'll borrow Bob's new coat, A little i)ronotincc\ 
tis true, but still stylish. Ha, Ha ! Borrowed plumage; 
but, as Bob would say, although not the owner in presenti, 
I'll be a tenant m tail. False colors, what of it ? Men, 
and women too, wear false hair, teeth, eyes and complexions, 
hearts and manners. And why should not I, a new-born 
son of Esculapius, wear a friend's coat? It is all for the 
fair, and not a coat to conceal fraud. For Julia's sake I 
would wear any fashionable new coat with resignation, 
unless it be a present from Julia of a sack. I will then 
apply to Bob, not as a lawyer for a whole suit, but as a 
friend, to furnish the desiderated garment. ( Writes.^ and 
reads as he writes.) 



13 

" Dear Bob: Being invited for to-morrow to a party, in 
which there is a large infusion of the fair sex, and iinding, 
after a careful inspection, that mj^ coat is not in the most 
healthy condition, might I request the favor of your lend- 
ing me a corresponding piece of toggery for tlie occasion, 
if you have such an article to spare, and said article be of 
a kind creditable to the wearer. We are about of a size, 1 
think, and I can therefore calculate on a fit. 
" Yours, truly, 

" Frank Merrilie." 

" N. B. It must be, of course, a frock coat, half dress and 
half promenade costume." {Seals the letter^) 

Jeems, are you waiting for an answer ? 

Jeems. Yes, sir. 

Frank. Say to her, Jeems, that I shall be most happy 
to be one of the party. Jeems, stay a moment, would you 
{feeling for a gratuity) oblige me, Jeems, by being the 
bearer of this note to Robert Summer — you know Summer — 
{Jeems hows) and fetch me back an answer, say in half an 
hour ? 

Jeems. With all my heart, doctor. (Jeems takes note 
and gift.) Exit, l. 

Frank. And now for a short stroll over to the Ocean 
and a peep at the wall-ilower hop. Band plays Ofienbach's 
music, while grave and reverend seniors look serious and 
respectable; nothing short of Moody and Sankey could stir 
them up to hilarity. Exit, r. 

Enter Landscape Gardener, with two suh -gardeners from 

the R. c. 

L. G. You will now go to the Italian garden. Your 
work is there laid out for you. I shall follow presently, to 
give you further directions. {.Exeunt sub-gardeners,!.. L 
G. retires to the bridge, and, in passing vjood bower, dis- 



14 

covers Matilda within^ sleeping^ What fair wonder is this ! 
' Have all the perfumes and zephyrs that haunt this garden 
become a living thing, or waits she yet for life? What sun- 
beam, kissing those lips, could quicken a soul so pure ? Has 
beauty, enamored of its own loveliness, sculptured this 
sleeping paragon, reversing the fate of the fabled Narcissus? 
For this, Endymiou would have forsaken his couch, and Pan, 
his pipes. I oft have dreamed of a maiden born of the sun 
and ileecy cloud. A heavenly passion, made to be the bride- 
groom of him who, maddened with genius, dies for a death- 
less love. But never yet, in dream or vision, have my eyes 
seen one so absolute in all perfection as this drowsy nymph. 
My soul, stirred by an invisible spirit, leaps up to gaze upon 
those eyes, whose glances must shoot forth radiant bliss. 
Amid these flowers and buds, these humble peasantry of the 
grass, whose weak lives I have fostered as a brother's, God 
has sent his angel to me, to make my life one of love, as it 
has been one of piety. She wakes and moves, and I must 
fly. {Crosses stage and exit l. c.) 

Matilda. {Coming out of the hoiver.) What face was 
that I saw just now ? Could I have waked dreaming, and 
the vision but the ripeness of my dream ! Oh, no ! The 
vines did stir, and the hasty step of a retreating man, sound- 
ing, did entertain my ears. But what a Godlike counte- 
nance ! His glance darted through my ej'es, into my heart, 
as leaps the lightning from the bosom of a cloud to strike a 
mountain cedar. If I should live a thousand years, and 
after death, if remembrance still may live, I never shall for- 
get the sweetness and the manly beauty of him who gazed 
just now. I am afraid, and yet I love to think on what I 
tremble at. Weak heart, to be so foolish. It has found its 
master, and to love him as its master shall be its dearest 
duty; yet it flutters like a wounded dove, and when its 
still, it will mourn for him like a widowed one, till it finds 
its mate. 



15 

Enter Bertha, r. c. 

Bertha. What in the world is the matter, Matilda ? 
You look bewildered. 

Matilda. Oh, Bertha ! Don't ask me. \Pauses.) Ber- 
tha, did you see a — {hesitates) any person pass this way ? 

Bertha. When ? 
\_^ Matilda. But a moment ago. 

Bertha. {Supposing it to he the gambler.) Oh, yes, dear 
mistress; Colonel Montrose, I think, must have been here. 
{Matilda shudders at his natne^ He seems to haunt these 
grounds, and I guess my lady can tell the reason why. If 
If the thrush hen knows not the mottled lover that woos 
her, what other bird of the wood can come to the knowledo-e, 
I am too old a bird to know now the notes of a lover, or to 
tell a moulted feather from the new plume. Col. Montrose 
is as venturesome as he is constant. 

Matilda. JSTo, not he. Any one else ? 

Ber tha. {Suspiciously.) Why, who do you think was 
here ? 

Matilda. One whom I never saw; or, if I did, it was 
,but for an instant. Of his name and person I am wholly 
ignorant. 

Bertha. Then it is a he. Oh, my lady, the birds will 
seek the cherries and the brook they come to taste and drink 
of, Matilda. 

Matilda. {Earnestly.) My old friend and instructress, 
tell me, (and don't be foolish, or think I am,) have you not 
seen one wandering through these grounds, or near them, 
of an uncommon height and frame, with a dignity of mein 
that would at once strike you ? I saw, or thought I saw, 
such a one, but for an instant, and in that moment there 
was a greatness in his looks and high fate that almost awes 
me when I recall it. 

Bertha. At twenty I would be much more likely to see 



IG 

such a dear man than at fifty. You know my eyes have 
lost somewhat of their sharpness, as well as their beauty. 

Matilda. {Caressing Jter.) Now I want to ask a favor 
of you ; and, dear Bertha, keep my secret. I want you to 
find out, by some means, who this gentleman is who tarried 
here just now, and then tell me. {^Another caress.) "Will 
you promise me ? 

Bertha. {Aside.) I'll find him ^out for my own sake, 
{Aloud.) Well, if you wish it, and particularly request it, I 
will; though it goes against my conscience to be engaged in 
such a work, my lady. What would your ma say ? And I 
am sure your pa would discharge your old governess if 
he knew I was looking up the names and histories of all the 
handsome young men who hang around a pretty heiress' 
grounds at Newport; and then my time from my duties. 

Matilda. Well, kind Bertli^i, that's a good creature. I 
knew you'd do as much for me, and I'm ever so grateful, 
and I'll recompense you for all of these perils; there, go. 
{Exit Bertha.) And I will go to bathe the wings of my 
fancy in this new sea of pleasant thought till I know more 
of one of whom I know so little, and yet that little will 
live with me forever. Exit., b. 

Enter Frank, l. 

Frank. Last night's dissipation was hideous. Old Bot- 
tlenose dozed the whole evening and made a first class anvil 
chorus to the band's Trovatore. Miserere ! ! The only 
thing radiant, beautiful and befiting a " Mid Summer 
Night's Dream " was Miss Roseallen. Gorgeous as a queen, 
she walked and moved, the wonder and delight of both old 
and young. Her highborn kinsmen must be the angels, 
and they must be lofty indeed, if they don't have to look 
up to her. Health and perfect beauty, to look upon, are in 
themselves medicine both for mind and body. If this be 
true, she is more potent to heal than all the old musty learn- 
ing I got out of the books these last five years, and yet 



17 

she left, no doubt, many a purple wound, that will be nursed 
for raanj a day by love, in idleness. I wonder what Julia 
would have said to have seen me startle at her classic face, 
as she turned its full beauty upon me as she passed. But, 
ah! Julia, I am yours, if am not yet sure you are mine. I 
wonder if Miss Roseallen ever felt love's smart. Although 
the most beautiful woman in America, they say she is the 
humblest and the most aftectionate of friends. Where such 
a woman gives her heart, there must courage, truth and con- 
stancy dwell; else the gift were trampled in the dust, and 
not laid upon an altar. Last night I noticed young Van- 
derpelt, the railroad magnifico. She hung upon his arm. 
What a contrast in faces ! One, the innocence of the lily 
and the sparkle of the dewdrop, the other, the hard, sharp 
man of business, smirking all over with success, yet eager 
and sensitive at any change of good or bad fortune. As all 
of his thoughts are drawn from business, they are, most of 
them unfit for conversation. What does he know about the 
bonds of matrimony ? Bah! Nothing — Erie and New York 
Central, everything. Such a match is like the foam of the sea, 
pure and spotless, caressing the slimy rock, only to be driven 
back and lost in the blackness of despair. Such beauty as 
hers is the beauty of holiness, indeed, and was made to 
make, like the skies, all happy, and ambitious to be wor- 
thier. No; if I have studied the expression of the outward 
countenance aright, and can judge of it, as I can of the 
blood, nerves and muscles, which give it animation, T should 
say that nothing but a poet in love could ever strike a chord 
of sympathy from that high-strung lyre, or casket a heart 
so jewelled with every gem-like virtue. But — Oh ! Here 
comes Bob's note and coat. {Enter Jeems, r., hands note 
and coat.) Dear, kind fellow, as he is, what does he say: 

" Dear Frank: As the patriarch of old gave to his best 
beloved a coat of many colors, so I give to thee, with all my 
heart, because I love thee, this celestial jacket. You may 
3 



18 

know the sacrifice I make, when I tell you I have been 
invited to be one of the party. Bat having no other coat 
but ray " Roger de Coverl}'-," which has been in and out a 
dozen times, I have concluded to be assoined. May you not 
disgrace the owner. 

" Yours, ever, 

" Bob Summer, 
^^Atty. at Law, Solicitor in Chancery, and 

'■'■Proctor in Admiralty y 

Thank you, Jeems, you may now go to your mistress. 
{Exit Jeems, l.) He's witty, but poor. He'll make his 
mark yet. I'll just slip the coat on and run over and thank 
Bob. {Crosses to r.) 

Enter Bob Summer, r. 

Bob. My dear brother in poverty, Frank, how do you 
do this morning ? Am sorry I could not be with you at 
the hop last night, but was engaged in correcting the opin- 
ions of the " High Court of Commission " on fraud and 
perjuries in election cases. {Aside.) Playing backgammon 
for dimes to get my breakfast, seven to eight. 

Frank. Rather Hayesy, I should think. 

Bob. Don't give me a pun, doctor. I would prefer a 
milder emetic before bathing. After that I might take a 
paragram. 

Frank. Now, Bob, I'll just step aside and try your coat 
on; and, as it is near the time when I am to start, I'll see 
how it fits, and have your opinion of the get up. (Frank 
■puts the coat on.) 

Bob. Why, it is a beautiful fit. IS^ot the hundredth part 
of an inch too short, too long, or too wide. It is, in fact, 
just the thing. Could n't have been better, although it had 
been cut for you by Filby's foreman. 

Frank. And now. Bob, to go, and to see, and to conquer. 

Bob. And may all the angels who attend the good watch 



19 

over you and follow you, ray boy, till, like Paris, you cap- 
ture another Helen, or, like Eomeo, woo and win another 
Juliet. Exit Frank. 

{Officers 'present lurking among the scenery.) 

1st Bailiff. That's him, sure; there's the coat. Let's 
keep the ostrich in full sight till we capture him. He 
walks nimbly, but he can't fly you know. 

END OF ACT I. 



ACT 11. 

Scene. — Roseallen Garden, Vases and Flowers; Land- 
scape Gaedenee talking to the flowers. 

L. G. When I was a lad at my mother's knee, and drank 
truth from her lips, as the thirsty traveler from a cool way- 
side spring, she told me if I lived a pure life, and did that 
which was right, and spoke the truth from my heart; that 
if I never spake deceitfully with my tongue, or slandered or 
wronged my neighbor; that if I felt lowly in my own eyes, 
and honored those who served God; that if I always kept 
my word and honor, though I might feel a present loss, if 
I acted generously by a friend and protected the innocent; 
that if I loved my country and obeyed her laws, I should 
never fall, I believed her. And when the happy home was 
made one of mourning, at the death of the husband and the 
father, and I wept as if my heart w^ould break, I felt a sort 
of pride at the consciousness that the Lord would give me 
strength to make my ways perfect, so that I could have 
power to bind up the widowed heart, and be the head of 
our house. 

And when that other dark hour came, when my native 
and beloved State, seized with the fury of its closest com- 
panions, star-like madly shot from its sphere to make one 
in the constellation of a new born confederacy, when the 
spirit of war entered our peaceful home, I felt that as one 
of her sons I must go forth to battle in her cause, my 
Spartan mother, true to her Southern birth-place, came and 
blessed me, and gave to me the sword of my ancestor, and 
bade me (though the apple of her eye, her sole and only 
treasure,) to go forth and stand by my colors in victory or 
death, I kissed her; and as I touched her lips I felt the 
spirit of War beat high in my heart, and Hope, that I 



21 

might win a splendid name, living or dying, for fame was 
ever dear to me. I also felt sad at parting with her and 
the loss of the old Union for which mj sires had bled. 
And when, in the midst of carnage, on the fratricidal field 
I fell, pierced by a bayonet, and darkness veiled my eyes, 
and when consciousness returned a Federal soldier held my 
head tenderly on his knee, and bending over me laved my 
brow with the last drops of water from his cup, and spoke 
to me a soldier's cheer, and as half entranced 1 gazed upon 
the figure of that soldier, I saw a vision like unto Victory 
holding the cup of Mercy to the pale lips of Defeat, or the 
hand of Triumph smoothing the brow of Disaster, until all 
were made God-like, victor and vanquished, by tliat love 
which alone inspires the brave, I thought myself dying, and 
I felt a resigned sorrow that I never would see again my 
mother and my dear old home, but die and be buried, 
unmarked, on that field by that noble Northerner; and 
when youth and strength triumphed over death, and I once 
more became a man again, I felt the joy of existence and 
the delight of gratitude to those who had so generously 
nursed me as I lay sick like a stranger bird in the nest of a 
nourishing eagle. But neither the pride of youth or ambi- 
tion at going forth to war, nor hope of victory or delight at 
being saved from the jaws of death, or the heavenly senti- 
ments of gratitude, did ere so thrill me with emotions so 
strange and exquisite as I now feel at the ever-living 
thought of her who forever and ever must be my heart's 
proud, peerless dame! 

And did I leave you {turning to his flowers) yesterday 
with no love in my heart l)ut for you? Each face so fondly 
dear, each breath so odorously sweet, with countenances so 
mirthful and life so faitliful — each little hungry mouth 
opened wide to receive its dewy drink, and each heart 
unfolded to take in the liglit of God and His beauty; each 
spray turned toward me as I tended you, and looked fresh- 
ness and faith after I had given you your morning and 



22 

evening bath. Surely He who has given you so much 
beauty and such dear fragrance must have given you a soul 
to love sweet sounds, as you show bi'ight colors. Each 
passing breeze plays upon you as an ^olian harp, stealing 
the softest music from the soul of fragrance, as Orpheus 
played upon the lyre strung with the hairs of Apollo. Was 
it you who blessed me, and taught me the perfect ways of 
truth, and not I, who was your faithful, loving servant, 
blessing you? You, my fair palace builders and chaste 
embroiderers of the earth, must know the secret of my 
heart, once all your own, now ready to forsake you all for 
one unknown^ but one whose beatitude has robbed me of 
every impulse save to be her adorer. You have in your 
briglit, fragrant folds little citizens. What spirit was it 
first tauglit poets of your fairy queen and all her tiny train ? 
Can you not conjure her to mount her chariot, and, floating 
upon waves of music and of light, spread a charm around 
the spot where my slumbering maid lies bright and beau- 
tiful, and keep her mjine forever? I hnov^ you hear me, 
and will aid me. 

" The red rose cries, ' She is near, she is near,' 
And the white rose weeps, ' She is late ; ' 
The larkspur whispers, 'I hear, I hear,' 
And the lily weeps, ' I wait.' " 

No wonder that poets gave to you the power of divine 
eloquence. The heart of the rose and the soul of the lily 
are fit orators of thoughts, which can only breathe holy 
incense and purity. But 1 grow daft and foolish; I, who 
am but a poor gentleman, without the profession of either 
arms or learning, stripped by the decrees of war, of fortune, 
an exile from the home of my fathers — a patriot without a 
countr3\ How should I hope to win heaven's fairest star, 
or wear upon my bosom earth's fairest flower? As I can- 
not mate her, then will I canonize her, and sing vesper 
songs to her, such as Diana and her chaste sisterhood were 
wont to hear, not unheeded, when tuned by shepherd's reed. 



23 

Enter Montrose, l. 

Montrose. (Aside.) How good and noble lie looks. It's 
he who stands between an heiress and myself. I hate him. 
(Aloud.) Good morning, sir; I fear I trespass on you thus 
early. 

L. G. You are welcome. The early morn should ever 
bring a welcome for those who watch for her coming. We 
must be of the same faith who worship at the same altar. 
How can I serve you, sir? 

Montrose. Oh, nothing. I only strolled this way to 
get a glimpse of the morning sun ere he brushed away the 
dew from his eyes and shone a little too lustily for comfort. 
Are you the gardener who designed and laid out these 
grounds ? 

L. G. I am, sir. 

Montrose. I have heard your talents praised, and that, 
too, by the tongue of beauty. Is your employment one of 
choice? 

L. G. Such choice only as fate compels one bred to arms. 
For me the fortunes of war have indeed changed the sword 
into a pruning hook. 

Montrose. You were a soldier, then? May I ask in 
what army? 

L. G. I think my present lot would have answered that 
question; in the Confederate service. Pray, why do you 
ask me? 

Montrose. Oh, a passing curiosity. Sometimes gods 
have changed the garb of honor for the tunic of a shepherd 
for the sake of a lady love. 

L. G. I have known them to appear as geese. 

Montrose. I said I came to see the morning; I also had 
another object. A young lady has found out that a chanti- 
cleer is not a nightingale, if he does tune his trumpet to a 
love song. 

L. G. You must speak more plainly, sir. To whom and 
what do you refer? I never allow myself to play one in 



24 

such a dialogue except in open Held. If aught that you 
have said has any application to myself, you must drop 
metaphor, and talk with plainness. 

Montrose. To be very plain, then, Miss Roseallen is 
offended at your boldness, and she regards your love as 
high fantastical. Neither your presence nor your sere- 
nades are agreeable to her. 

L. G. Miss Roseallen has sent you with this uncourtly 
messaere? That I never can believe. 

MoiSTTEOSE. Dare you doubt me, then? 

L. G. My tongue dares doubt what my heart mistrusts. 
I fear not to speak my thoughts to heaven and man. I 
shall discover, in a manner least annoying to the lady, what 
has inspired so cruel an errand, if your words are true! 

Montrose. Your words and manner both invite a future 
meeting. {La,ying his card upon the flower stand.) I 
shall have occasion to meet you, my Hector Cincinnatus, 
my Pan in epaulets; ha! ha! Exit Montrose, r. 

L. G. A parting salute from a cowardly retreat. It's an 
unwholesome wit that only flashes as it goes out — a cliarnal 
lamp that shows ghastly the corruption that reeks within. 
He has slandered my dove. No such black plume can grow 
among down so white. Oh, no, I'll not believe him. Poor 
I may be, but the subject of contempt never. Her heart is, 
like the stone in the ring of Pyrrhus, vermiculated with all 
the graces in whose veins run living love, made by a 
heavenly master. Methinks this false courier has told a 
wicked lie. Slander was ever the coward's revenge; simple 
faith and love to God and man are the only true flowers of 
chivalry. Exit., l. c. 

Young ladies and their leaux enter., r. c, carrying bas- 
kets of provisions, which are stored away hy footman, etc. 

YiOLET. {Sitting down.) What a charming place, and 
what a delightful day for owxfete. 



25 

Charles. And what a happy fate have I, Miss Violet, 
to throw myself at your feet, Venus and Adonis like. 

Clarence. Like Leander, I have swam so far that my 
Hero must now revive me, if she can. 

Nellie. One who could revive you, after having swam 
in such a sea of glory, must be a hero indeed. 

Charles. Did you notice that beautiful group of tall 
trees just as we turned the lane? A thrush, which had been 
singing as if his heart were bursting with gladness at the 
freshness of the morning, frightened at our approach, flew 
buzzing away to the meadow. I never saw such beautiful 
plumage. 

Violet. I heard his whir; but I was just then stooping 
to pick up this beautiful flower. See, it is a wild one, and 
has such a pretty goldeti tinge. Wouldn't a bunch of them 
look nice in my hair ? Charles, you must make me a head- 
dress of them before we go home. 

Charles. I'm wild enough to be a flower; and would 
be plefised to be one, if I could live among your tresses. 

Violet. Yes, you're too wild for my ringlets; and I fear 
that you are already a hair-brained youth. 

Clarence. And here are the grounds laid out by the 
young gardener — the Chevalier de Finer. They are a poem 
in many books. He must be a poet, who can produce such 
a landscape, and a sculptor, who could group such figures. 
It is a manly as well as a lovely art. 

Nellie. Indeed, they say he is not only a poet, but a 
minstrel, and carols out his own songs like a skylark, " in 
profuse strains of unpremeditated art." He is not only a 
skylark, but a nightingale, for he sings both by day and 
night. 

Walter. He is a genuine troubadour and knight arrant 
— a blending of Apollo and Mars. They say that he is as 
brave as he is fine looking. 

Maria. The bravest are ever the gentlest. I wish that 
he would come down from the skies and have a lark with me. 
4 



26 

Arthur. Kather say that yon should go up to the 
heavens, being already celestial. 

Maria. Oh, yes, you gentTemen call us heavenly bodies; 
and so we are, as we only dance round like them to eclipse 
each other. 

YiOLET. See the widower over there making love to Mrs. 
Cummings! Why, neither of their spouses have been dead 
six months. 

Charles. And what's the fun, neither has heard of the 
single blessedness of the other. 

Clarence. I thought he was one of the pillars of the 
church. 

Charles. Better call him the nave. 

Mrs. Cummings. Ah! Mr. Bartlett, where is your wife? 
What would she say if she heard you talking such nonsense 
to me? 

Bartlett. Oh! madam^ {sighs) she is now resting in 
Graceland, and I only think of her as an angel! I am a 
widower these six months. Poor Clara is now on the 
shining shore. But, Mrs. Cummings, you were not 
acquainted with her. Her worth was like your own — 
perfectly measuveless. Her beauty now lives in my mem- 
ory, and is made only the more fresh by mingling the 
shadows of the tomb with the animated bust of your lovely 
self! It is I who should say what would your husband say 
if he knew that you listened with a smile at the avowal of 
my new born passion? How is he? 

Mrs. C. Oh! I was dying to have you ask me that 
question. {Siinperi7ig and coquetting with her fan.) He's 
been dead these six months! 

{Enter Old W., k., who has overheard them, and ap- 
proaches.) 

Julia. Why, here's father. 

Old W. {Taking no notice of ^niA A.) Yes; your loves 
are both buried; and, what is worse, their places can never 
be filled. You, Mrs. Cummings, had a husband who doted 



27 " 

on you, and killed himself to make you rich. "Well may a 
man exclaim, under such circumstances, " What shall it 
profit him if he gain the whole world and make his wife a 
widow?" And you, too, Albert, had such a wife, so de- 
voted and true. I saw you married, my boy, thirty years 
ago ( Widower^ dressed youthfully^ winces), and I thought 
I never saw such noble behavior as yours at your wedding; 
nor did I ever see it equaled till 1 saw your resigned grief 
at her funeral. Your deportment upon both occasions was 
grand. {Taking Bartlett hy the hand.) Her place, Al- 
bert, can never be filled, never, never, never ! ( Weeps.) Is 
it not so, Albert? 

Bartlett. Not by her, my dear sir; not by her. 

Old W. Who in the devil would you have it filled by, 
then? Oh, I see. (^Punches the widower, with a shy ges- 
ture, and retreats.) 

^ULiA. Why, pa, you're not going. Stay, and let us 
make you a punch. 

Charles, And offer you a cigar. 

Old W. JSTo; I am taking my constitutional, and I 
wanted to see these grounds just laid out by my old friend 
Roseallen. Exit Willoughbt, l. 

(^All walk forward to the widow and widower.) 

Violet. Now, we want all to pair off for the day. No 
flirting, you know. Anyone found trespassing on these 
rules must pay a forfeit. Mr. Bartlett, who will you take? 
And you, Mrs. Cummings; make your choice. You know, 
'tis orAy for a day. 

Charles. Stop, stop awhile, says Slow\ Put on the 
pot, etc., etc., etc., and let us sup before we go. Among all 
these helles, let's have the tocsin of the soul — the dinner 
bell. {A scamper for the baskets.) 

Clarence. "A priest, a shark, an alderman, or a pike?" 

Nellie. Boys, will you have your punch hot or cold? 

Charles. Thank you ; I'll take one cold while the other 
is heating. 



28 

(Lizzie pours out wine in Walter's gohlet.) 

Lizzie. Here, take a sandwich. They are very nice. 

Walter. "Fill full. Why, this is as it should be. 
Here is my true realm — among bright eyes and fair. 
Happy as fair; here sorrow cannot reach." 

Arthur. Oh, hush your poetry. Let's cease to feed on 
sighs, to pant on beef. Like Homer's heroes, I never talk 
while eating. 

Maria. The first business of a picnic is to dine alfresco. 
All compliments seem empty till then. 

Julia. There are more loaves and fishes here than would 
feed a multitude. 

Clarence. You must remember, ladies, that we live at 
a hotel, where the heaviest dinners are but light lunches. 
The plates are like Indian bull's eyes. It takes a first-class 
marksman to hit one with his fork. They only play bo- 
peep with the palate. 

Walter. They always have everytliing you want — on the 
" bill of fare;" a good reason, they never part with it. They 
always keep it. The waiter goes for it, and brings you 
back a glass of water and faith. 

Bartlett. Yes, in things unseen and untasted. 

Arthur. {Pointing to Bartlett.) "He never dines 
with comfort but where he is sure tq create a famine." 

Charles. The guests are the only things seen, dressed 
in a pepper and salt suit, at the table. The season must 
season itself. High prices and low diet. 

Mrs. C. Dr., you know the reason why they ought not 
to feed you well. 

Charles. We should not hanker after the flesh-pots of 
Egypt unless we are Jews, and they do not admit them. 

Clarence. No, unless you would n't be hungry enough 
to come back the next season. 

Mrs. C. If they fed you like camels, you could not go 
through the eye of a needle into your be'Q chambers. The 



29 

wing of a nightingale would make jour room too small to 
hold you. 

Clarence. But, Julia, where's your beau? What, a lag- 
gard in love? Let's give him the sack, and cut him with 
one of his own lancets. 

Maria. Oh, look! Here he comes, Dr. Merrilie, look- 
ing superbly. See how dashing he is, and what a coat! 
Such a male would win any girl. 

Walter. Girls, put up your umbrellas; for look on the 
Doctor's coat! I fear 'tis going to rain — the doctor's a 
traveling rainbow. 

Julia. But a reign which will soon end when I catch 
and string this beau. 

Arthur. A capital shot with a bow. Miss Julia. You 
are not only very arch, but a good archer. I ^quiver all 
over at a thing so barbarous. 

(Dr. enters!., c. and hows to all and hows hefore Julia.) 

Julia. Why, Dr. Merrilie; if you are as slow in mak- 
ing sick people well as you are quick in making well peo- 
ple wait for you, 1 fear your patients will lose all patience 
with you. 

Frank. My dear ladies and gentlemen, I have been un 
avoidably detained. 

Charles. {Aside.) That sounds professional. 

Frank. No matter. Where is Miss Kate Spring? I 
have a message for her. 

Lizzie. Why, she has been moping and as silent as a 
star, because her summer has not come. She has not said 
one word. The summer should ever follow the spring. 

Kate. We were about to pair off, when Julia and I 
found we were without our Romeos. And it would be 
fruitless to make a pair of us (Frank offers his arm and 
hows), even to hang on such a bough. 

Frank. Since I am Bob Summer's ambassador to this 
Court of Beauty, I trust I can interest Miss Kate while I 
show her the heart of my embassy. {Offers other arm to 



30 

Julia, and promenades among the roses and jlomers, hom- 
ing and s7nirJcing, and eliding peals of laughter from all^ 
followed hy the rest. [Footmen gather lunch^ etc.] As 
each swvngs to the front and centre of the stage., th&y say:) 

Arthctk. ' Why the doctor's the king of the roost. 

Walter. The very center of attraction. 

Charles. The delight, the glory, the leading st^r in this 
galaxy of beauty. 

Arthur. I declare, I would rather have a first class 
tailor make one up than Praxitilies. They give a fellow a 
finer form and a more modern look. Fashion is more to be 
desired than any of Solomon's musty provender. It is bet- 
ter to have a fashionable suit of clothes than to take a city. 

Charles. Yes; cities will follow the fashion. It is their 
habit. An embroidered tanic lost the Amazonian Camilla 
her life. 

Violet. Oh, Charles! you're envious. I will get a fairy's 
coat and put it on you, and then you will be changed in the 
twinkling of an eye. 

Charles. Into a dandy sawbones. {Sarcastically.) Per- 
haps you will get the same fairy Puck to lend me Bottom's 
false face, 

VioLEr. {Archly.) If I thought you needed it, I might, 
my jealous Oberon. 

Clarence. " What! Is the jay more precious than the 
lark because his feathers are more beautiful?" 

Arthur. " Or is the adder better than the eel, because 
her painted skin contents the eye ? " 

Julia. {Fondly.) Oh ! Frank ; you look so debonair^ 
to-day. I've almost a notion to fall in love with you over 
again. You are the best dressed gent at Newport. Your 
coat is really distingud. Where did you get it ? 

Frank. Ah ! Yes, indeed. I assure you I had great 
difficulty to get it. It puzzled me a good deal to find out a 
coat that would suit me to come here to-day. 

Julia. I know you are very particular about many things ; 



31 

but I never knew yoii to display such good* taste as now. 
Pa was here to day. I wish we could have prevailed upon 
him to have remained. I think, if Pa could see you now, 
he might think you would make something after all. 

Frank. I never felt, until now, how much a man owes 
to appearances. It is a debt which is never paid, and for 
which he is never dunned. " The world is still deceived by 
ornament." But Julia, to look well in your eyes is worth 
more to me than twenty garments, though they might be as 
precious as was the cloak of St. Martin. I wish that your 
pa was here, to see what a fine looking couple we make. 
{Promenading from the front to the rear, while the officers 
enter from the rear of the stage.) 

Enter Bailiffs, bear c. 

1st Bailiff. ( Wiping his forehead with his handker- 
chief) Faith, Davy, that was a run, and not to make him 
out after all. But we'll nail him yet. 

2d Bailiff. But are you sure it was him,, after all ? 

1st Bailiff. Oh ! perfectly; I cannot be mistaken. It 
is the coat beyond a manner of doubt; and of course it is 
the man, too. See, he came out of the house that we were 
directed to. 

2d Bailiff. Shall we nab him now ? Let's put a slug 
through his wings. Little does he know that we are watch- 
ing him. Do you think he'll run ? 

1st Bailiff. No; wait a bit; not too soon, or he might 
take to his trotters. You don't know how a man can run 
with a writ at his heels. I've seen great fat ould chaps, 
that ye would n't have thought could run a yard, tly like 
the wind before a " Whereas.''^ 

(Frank and his party, who have been sauntering ainong 
the vases of flowers in the rear of the stage, come forward. 
The Bailiff steps hack, and, as he passes, tips him on the 
shoulder. Frank turns round indignantly, with the ladies 
hanging upon his arm.) 



32 

Frank. What do you mean, sir ? {Only reply ^ knowing 
wink and wag of the forefinger, which meant, Come here, 
my friend, and Pll tell you.) Get along with you, sir. 

1st Bailiff. {Sarcastically.) Thank you ; but I won't. 

Frank. No; then w^hat in the deuce do you want ? 

1st Bailiff. You; but you had better behave yourself, 
for your own sake. 

Frank. {Sarcastically.) Do tell me what you mean ! 

1st Bailiff. Do you know such a man as Filby, the 
tailor ? Do you know Filby the tailor ? 

Frank. I know him to be the most fashionable tailor in 
the city; but, as I never had any dealings with him, of 
course I can owe him nothing. (Frank attempts to pass on 
with the ladies.) 

1st Bailiff. Not so fast, friend, {slapping Frank upon 
the shoulder less ceremoniously^ you're my prisoner; and 
here's my authority, {pulling out a crumbled piece of paper, 
an execution against Bob.) Although you do not know 
Filby, I happen to know Filby's coat. The short and the 
long of the matter is, sir, that I want you, at the instance 
of J. Filby, tailor and clothier, for debt of $65, with interest 
and expenses, said debt being the price of the identical 
coat which you have now upon your back. So come along 
quietly, or it may be the worse for you. 

Frank. {Aside^ and leaving the ladies and walking 
to the front of the stage; gents malce gestures of ftm 
and delight, etc.) Yes, I see it all. I see how the case 
stands. Poor Bob has never paid for this flashy thing in 
which I am arrayed, and these dogs of the law intend these 
honors for him ; and as I have won the glory, I must be 
content to bear the defeat. I am here in a dilemma ! A 
regular scrape. I must either acknowledge, in the presence 
of these gentlemen and fair ones, that the coat which I wear, 
and which has procured me so much admiration, and so 
many compliments, is a borrowed one, or quietly submit to 
being dragged from Julia to jail, as the true debtor. But 



33 

I have no more fancy for incarceration than the prisoner of 
Chillon, or of old Adam, to be turned out of his picnic 
grounds. I must make the best of it. {Sighing.) I must 
own the distressing fact that this indigo-tinted thing is a 
borrowed one, and then, not being its true owner, I shall be 
free from the attentions of these hounds. ( Walks towards 
the company and officers.) I have, friends, a humiliating 
truth to confess. This coat, which has excited your admi- 
ration, and given me a false claim to your favor, is not mine. 
It is a borrowed one. My wings were but wax, and the fire 
of these luminaries of the law has melted them, and I must 
tumble from my eminence. Let me ask your forbearance, 
and pray do not laugh at my mishap, and as the shirtless 
man, when found, was found to be the happiest, perhaps 
because he did not live in a borrowed one, so may I hope for 
content, if you will only forbear from jesting at a coatless 
brother. Will any gentleman lend me his duster ? 

Arthur. O ! Julia, lend him your shaw^l, now that his 
fine feathers are gone; he will surely catch cold. 

(Julia goes to him and affectionately hangs on his <^rm.) 
":'■ Charles. {Shaking hands with him.) That's the best 
plaster that you can have. A pretty girl's sympathy when 
you're down. 

1st Baiuff. Young man, this may only be a stiff ; a 
bogy. You can't prove an alihi in that way. Go down 
with me to "Justice Bull" and clear it up, and then you 
may save your carcass, although you have lost your skin, 

(i RANK indignantly attempts to push the officer aside.) 

fsi Bailiff. {Pulling out his handcuffs and clicking 
them.) You had better bid the party a graceful good bye, 
and come along like a decent well-behaved tramp. 

Clarence. We all liked the cut of the coat. Its tail, 
however, has an exceeding small ending. Young Asafoe- 
tida must now assist at his own dissection. 

(Frank and Julia go, and all follow.) 
5 



34 

Clarence. {Lingers.^ 

" Sure this gay, fresh coat, as seems to me. 
Hangs like green ivy on a rotten tree." 

Exuent, l. 

Stage darkened^ and while a minor-toned hell strikes 
slowly the hour of ten the moon slowly rises, music low 
and tremulous. Balcony, Rivulet, Bridge, and Bower, 
flooded with moonlight. 

Miss RosEALLEN enters Balcony. 

Matilda. The moon rides at its highest splendor to- 
night, and lights up all the gloom in yonder wood. What 
strange, fantastic shapes of embroidery the moonbeams 
make in the interlacing bonghs and leaves. See yonder 
chilly water lilies. What silver light their faces throw on 
that dark Norway pine that overhangs the rivulet edge. 
The stars have all disappeared, or show like creamy flakes 
of silver spray. Now all is quietness. Not a leaf stirs. 
The winds do make no noise, and all is overflown with 
silence and with fragrance. Now comes trooping into my 
mind its own secret thoughts — the beloved stranger. My 
spirits are so subdued to his love that on such a night as 
this, with such a scene, I am almost melted to tears — fool- 
ish ones, no doubt, but unbidden they spring, making me 
feel as tender as looks this landscape. If mystic chords of 
sympathy can hold two souls, I think this night's beauty 
and stillness would weave them between my heart and its 
idol, and bring him to me. The genii of solitude could 
give to this garden no nobler form of statuary. 

(L. G.'s Serenade is heard from the lady's hower.) 

Math^da. Good heavens! what can this mean? {Pauses 
till after the serenade.) Music ever moved me, but this 
steals into my ears with a flood of melody so divine that I 
am almost faint with rapture. 



Enter L, G. from Bower. 

L. G. Did Surprise ever yet show so beautiful? She 
looks like classic alabaster, or " Daphne root bound as she fled 
Apollo." Methinks her upturned face doth give new beauty 
to the moon and lights her palor into smiles. But list! 
she speaks, and Silence holds her breath to catch- the per- 
fumed sounds. 

Matilda. What stranger can you be who comes here 
with song and with instrument? These are private grounds, 
and my father would be displeased if he found one such as 
you seeking at such an hour the groves and walks of this 
garden, instead of asking the hospitalities of the hall. 

L. G. A friendless man, without a country, must always 
be a stranger to the great. Your father entertains more 
silken knights. 

Matilda. I am too curious. I believe I know you. 
Are you not the gentleman who but yesterday surprised me 
sleeping in my bower? You are now a gardener, and, if 
fame speaks truly, you were once a brave soldier in a lost 
cause. Why do you forsake the noble profession of arms 
to take up an occupation that the world accounts so lowly, 
if not unmanly? You play the troubadour and the night- 
ingale when you should act the hero and the eagle. 

L. G. I cannot practice the profession of arms or follow 
any learned calling suited to my taste. An iron-clad oath 
has chained me to the rock, Prometheus-like, denying to 
me, like him, the herb and bread that could be won by 
intellectual toil in court or martial field. Yet, sweet lady, 
call not my calling womanly, nor think meanly of its serv- 
ant. Next to him who strikes for liberty and right, he 
who distills from bogs and fens, beauty, fragrance and food 
for all earth's children, most likens him who made each 
tree and everything that grows upon its bosom. 

Matilda. Yet the country clown and boor make rich 
earth's soil to get earth's increase. 

L. G. Yes, but with an idle mind and, an unfashioning 



36 

hand. The golden corn and wheat, trained into graceful 
rows, show beauty, but beauty that dies with the harvest. 
I seek to carve out of the rugged and most waste places of 
nature pictures as beautiful as poets' dream or artist's gem, 
that Grod may be glorified in all His works, and my brother 
man made nearer to Him, Homer, Milton, and the sweet 
Bard of Avon drew pictures of great things in heaven, earth 
and hell — gods and demigods, giants. Titans, and demons, 
and fashioned them after their own desiring phantasy. These 
bloom immortal in the lofty verse. Claude, Turner, Church 
throw on the canvas landscapes that are pictures of Para- 
dise, illumined by the light of heaven. So I (think it not 
profanity), though lower than these giants of our race, 
draw pictures on the homely parts of nature — if any aught 
can be — and God's own sunlight, dew, and air paint them 
with all the splendor of the bow, to smile immortal, yet 
forever changing, midst a shower of melody. 

Matilda. You paint a landscape made musical with 
birds for man's delight, making nature at once a workshop 
and a temple. I feel your work is noble. 

L. G. Thanks, lady. This shall be my richest recom- 
pense. I came not here to-night led by the merest curi- 
osity; nor yet did love's hand lead me, though here I 
wished to come; but a mission most important. Do you 
know and did you request Colonel Montrose to carry me 
the wounding message that my passion's song, ofiered thee, 
had given thee ofi^nse? A man so calling himself, did so 
inform me. 

Matilda. It is a cunningly-devised fable, invented by 
one whom I never admired, and can never more respect. 

L. G. How dare the villain play upon me and misuse 
you, the gentlest of your sex! May I be so bold as to ask 
permission to chastise the cozening knave? 

Matilda. Be not too hasty, sir; and remember that your 
superior strength and stature must ever hold him cheap as 
an antagonist, as has his base falsehood made him unworthy 



37 

of your regard as a gentleman. Besides, I fear my impru- 
dence. I know it is neither maidenly or customary for one 
of my sex to hold such converse with an unaccredited gal- 
lant. Seek my father. Your face, manners, education, and 
birth give you more recommendation than a thousand con- 
ventional introductions. Though bred to commerce, yet 
his parentage is good, and he has sense and independence, 
not only to discover merit, but with it to make friends. 
The finer points of war, statesmanship, and generous com- 
merce are the noble things which give men fame. I think 
I am content to be devoted, pure and chaste, to love my 
husband, care for my children, and make my home the 
dearest place for all. These in womanhood rival the vic- 
tor's crown or the poet's laurel. You know the brave are 
bold, and love makes cowards brave. Then go straightway 
to my father, and to that father's love will I intrust our 
fate. 

L. G. Mounted on such wings could I face the sun himself, 

And ask him for the brightest daughter 

Who lives upon his light. 
Matilda. Good night. May my father's face shine upon you 

As night's tapers do on us to-night. 

I fear I shall be angry with myself 

For giving you this entertainment. 
L. G. Say rather that you will be offended at me 

For being over bold. 
Matilda. What if I should frown. 
L. G. I fear not beauty's scorn, though dealt by thee. 

My fondness may offend thee. 

Urged by noble love, I dare support thy frown; 

For Heaven is kind, forgiving, like her of old. 

Before her Master knelt, and loved him much. 

For much had been forgiven. 

So thou, angel of love, let fall a tear, 

And I, forgiven, will nurse that tear, a pearl 

To purchase heaven ! 
Matilda. If pearls could be brewed so easily, 

I fear a necklace might be worn on every maid. 

Your sin was forgiven in my heart, ere my tongue 

Could pronouce the absolution. 



3S 

Fair sir, good-night! It's late, and I must to bed — 
Yet sing once more, while my prayers are being said. 

Matiuja partly retires. 
L. G. Methinks as I look upon this breathing sculpture, 
Whose radient whiteness is o'er-canopied 
With blue and gold, this garden is enchanted. 

(Landscape Gardener retires to the bower and sings while tfie 
curtain falls.)'^ 

END OF ACT II. " 



ACT III. 

Scene. — Part of Roseallen's Garden. Billiard Table 
on lawn. 

Oi-D WiLLOUGHBY. Bob, why don't you go yachting ? 
I see you are rigged for the sport. 

Bob. Well, I'm studying to be an admiralty lawyer, 
and I play billiards, so as to calculate the angles of approach 
in collision cases, by navigating balls so that they will col- 
lide upon green baize. Hard study — " sermons in stones " 
and a treatise on collision in every carom game. 

Enter Charles, Gents,' Ladies and Bailiffs, etc., l. o. 

Charles, Bob, my dear boy, we heard you were here, 
and we came over to return to you this cerulian bobtail, 
with a slight responsibility attached to the same. The doc- 
tor says it is not good blue glass, and has given him an 
ague fit. 

Frank. I fear, Summer, that I borrowed trouble when 
I borrowed your jacket. The officers here have me in dur- 
ance vile. 

Bob. My Dear Frank, you have n't borrowed the trouble, 
it's all your own. Thank you. You may return the coat, 
but keep the trouble, my dear fellow, and prescribe it for 
Mr. Willoughby for the gout. Trouble is a sure cure for 
that sort of a thing; eh ! Mr. Willoughby ? Hang it ! I 
bought this coat for an easy-setting pleasure garment, and 
it turns out to be good only for a traveling coat. 

1st Bailiff. Are you the owner of this coat, and the 
defendant in this writ ? If so, please take your cue and 
settle up, or take the fate intended for this poor gent. 

Bob. Hold on, my caitiff tip-staff. Walk softly and 
speak low, for here is a first class case of false imprison- 



40 

ment, trespass vi et armis. Merrilie, my friend, you have 
a merry suit made out of tliis very blue coat. Heavy and 
exorbitant damages, vindictive and curative. Egad ! I needed 
business, and who would have thought of putting Frank 
upon my hook as a fly? Why, Frank, I'll set you again. 
You're a nest Qgg, and deserve an ovation. Don't you 
want my breeches ? Would n't you like to invest in my 
vest, hey ? {Turning to the' officers.) Look here, my body- 
snatchers, you have unlawfully abridged the liberty of one 
of the sons of the sovereign State of New York ! One 
of the brightest luminaries that was ever a dead shot with 
physic, or killed a man secundum arteni by giving him a 
prescription to die in a dead language ! You had better 
emetic yourselves out of the window there, and escape his 
diagnosis, than to be ejected down stairs in a fit of convul- 
sions. Vile minions of Jack Ketch, I will for once be mag- 
nanimous. I will use my own funds in paying the dam- 
ages you owe. I will pay to the 'plaintifi* in this case 
{^pointing to Frank,) the amount of this execution out of 
my own pocket, in liquidation, (to be taken out in liquor,) 
of the damages you owe him, and call it square. Frank, 
don't blush at my generosity. 

1st Bailiff. That won't do young scarecrow ; that won't 
go down. You can't play bugaboo with us. It don't pay 
the tailor's bill. {Attempts to arrest Boh., who., retreating 
around the Milliard table., passes into the arms of Baiijff 
No. 2.) We'll have you or the money. 

Bob. My accounts seem to be in arrear. {Looking a 
little more seriously at Kate, and looking at . the hand- 
cuffs.) Is this what you call "■ a Newport tie?" Will 
you take bail? 

Bailiff. Yes; if it is good. 

Bob. What say you to the coat itself? It won't turn 
tail and run away, even in a case of running account. 

Bailiff. {Preparing to lead Bob off.) Pay up, or give 
good bonds. We have wasted time enough already. 



41 

Bob. See here, Mr. Willoiighby, would you like very 
much to give security to these outflyers of the ninth part of 
a man like yon ? 

WiLLOUGHBT. I never lend to spendthrifts, young man, 
or go their security, which in the end amounts the same 
thing. 

Bob. Mr. Willoughby, my father and you were old 
friends and schoolmates. He followed the profession of 
law, and, as a consequence, worked hard, lived well and died 
poor. You, that of a merchant, and, what is better than 
all, you can exclaim with Daniel Webster, (and you resemble 
him verjmuchin that one particular,) you may exclaim, " I 
yet live." When you two, my father and you, were young 
bachelors, and both neck and neck, no doubt, in life's course 
as you were heart and heart in friendship, you employed him 
as your counsellor. Well, as my father left me the profession, 
but no practice, I was looking over his papers to see if, 
out of the ashes of his business, (ashes, I trust, that have 
no lye in them, as have most lawyer's cases,) I found an 
old package of papers, tied up with a blue ribbon, and 
marked on his docket 9,999, although he had only been in 
practice then two months. The case of Cyclops vs. Wil- 
loughby. ( Willoughby startles.) Miss Xantippe Cyclops, 
a spinster of thirty -five ! Case, " Breach of Promise to 
Marry." Blue ribbon held love letters from a youth of 
twenty-two, now resembling Miss Julia's father. The pack- 
age also held their pictures, done in groujD — stately old she- 
biddy, verdant young coxcomb. 

Willoughby. Speak a little lower, please. 

Bob. Well, in looking over the entries, I found that 
your lawyer made no charge to his dear friend, and I don't 
see anywhere that the case has ever been settled. I am at 
great pains to look it up, and have it restored to the docket, 
for I am sure, from a perusal of the letters, and considering 
the over mellow ripeness of the plaintiff, and the youth and 
inexperience of the defendant at the time, you have a first- 
G 



42 

class defense upon the merits. You are in the right, my 
dear friend, and, for the sake of that friendship my father 
ever bore you, I'll make a speech which will put the eye 
out of that venerable Cyclops, and pull the wool over the 
eyes of the jury, so that you will escape just as that shrewd 
dog Ulyses did, by the aid of wool and lying, from the cave 
of her horrid old ancester. Let me state the case to Charles 
and Julia, here; they have first rate sense. Look on this 
picture, and then on this ! Tragic and grand. {Old Wil- 
lougKby tries to shut his mouth.) 

Old Willoughby. Umj)h ! I'll settle this matter, Mr. 
Bailiff. I'll call over to see the tailor. (Bailiffs retire l.) 

Bob. And invite the company to a case Chatteau Mar- 
gaux at your own snug cottage. 

WiLLOuGHBY. Why, ycs. {Aside.) But no more of 
Xantippe Cyclops. 

Bob. JMo; as I have opened your eye, I'll close hers 
forever. 

Exeunt all, k. Bob offer's Kate his arm and sings, chaff- 
ing Old Willoughby, 

" Here's to the girl loith a pair of blue eyes 
And here's to the nymph with but one^ sir." 

{Removes Billiard Tahle.) 

Enter Bertha and^ Col. Montrose, l. c. 

Montrose. The news you tell me startles and con- 
cerns me. I fear while I hesitate the bird will have mated 
and flown forever beyond my reach. This is certainly 
serious. I hope my visit to him was well timed, and will 
make him shy. 

Bertha. When you informed me that it was the young 
Southerner, I made up my mind, from all that I could hear 
and learn about him, that he would be a most dangerous 
rival. There is enough of mystery and merit about him 
both to excite the imagination of a young girl and to awaken 
her admiration. There is a dash about him of the soldier 



43 

and the courtier; and then his tenderness for his mother, 
his care of her, and his love for the beautiful; his love songs 
sung M'ith a voice of superb fullness; every one of which, 
to a pure minded maiden like Matilda, will fly to the heart 
like Cupid's best arrow with the golden head; and I fear that 
her fancy will make a hero out of a two-legged animal, who 
has no other merit than that of being an amiable pauper. 

Montrose. But what did Matilda say? 

Bertha. Oh, she extolled him to the sky, and was sure 
that he was a gentleman, whose birth and fortune was far 
above his.present condition. She thought his manners were 
those of a prince, although she never spoke to him or heard 
him speak; so quick does admiration give character to those 
whom we regard. 

Montrose. Well, one thing's plain — there is no 
time to lose. You must help me. Arrange this evening 
or next to get Matilda away from her father's hall into the 
garden near to the bridge, and I'll arrange the rest. 

Bertha. Oh, dear! You don't mean to do anything 
wrong? You dare not go to extremes, or attempt to carry 
her off. No, no, Colonel ; I will do all that I can to get 
her for you, but it tnust be done by coaxing and persuasion, 
and not by violence. I fear that I have gone too far already. 
Let's drop the matter. 

Montrose. Hark, you! I will not be trifled with. 
I mean the wench no harm. I wish only to get her alone; 
and then if tears and prayers avail nothing, release her, 
beseeching her to forget me. I know that we can calculate 
upon her delicacy and generosity; and if she believes that 
I have sinned through excess of love, I am sure she will 
forgive me, if she neither pities or loves me. ©o as I bid 
you, or I will ruin you and kill myself. 

Bertha. Good heavens! say no more. I'll do it; but 
you must not harm a hair of her head. She is so gentle 
and o-ood that I cannot see her wronsjed. 
. Montrose. I promise, on my honor. 



44 

Bertha. "Well, to-night or to-morrow night I will go 
upon an errand for Matilda, to iind out about this strange 
bird of hers, and I will ask her to watch me, as I am some- 
what timid. When upon the bridge, I will trip and fall. 
I know she will come to my assistance; and then while 
there you can detain her, and speak to her, if you must. 
You don't mean to say that you have seen him, and talked 
to him about Matilda? What did he say? 

Montrose. I threatened him. I found him as 
quick as Mars. I fear that he will pester me, with his 
cursed notions of chivalry and code of the duello. 

Bertha. Blood mixed with choler is said to be the best. 
But I should be so glad to hear more; but see, here comes 
Matilda! and you must leave me. 

Exit OoL. Montrose, r. 

'r Enter Matilda, yrc»w the bower, carrying a houquet. 

Matilda. See, Bertha, what a beautiful nosegay! Is it 
not charming? See how it is arranged! It is a love letter 
written in flowers, and says so many pretty things. I found 
it in my wood bower, just as we were starting for the bath. 
Who could have been thoughtful enough to have left it for 
me? 

Bertha. He who watches a maid while sleeping might 
bring her flowers to beguile her waking moments. I am 
afraid your invisible knight has left marks written in 
Flora's colors. I promised you, my lady, I would find him 
out; and so I will seek out his hiding place, and bring you 
all the intelligence I can of him. 'Til then curiosity must 
sleep in your heart, as sleeps the owl by moonlight — that 
is not at all. 

Matilda. Bertha, you were ever kind; but never before 
did 1 feel your kindness as now. Here comes the horses 
and Mr. Vanderpelt. I must go join him and pa; they are 
waiting for me to take me to the beach. \_Exit Bertha, l.] 
Bertha! {Calling her back.) Perhaps we had better make 



46 

no farther inquiries — they might be misunderstood; and 
if he should hear of them, might give him offense. 

Bertha. Well, miss, just as you choose. {Aside.) I 
fear she has learned enough already. {Aloud.) But still I 
must go and meet my messenger, and instruct him not to 
concern himself farther upon the subject. 

Matilda. There, pa's calling. Go, Bertha. 

Exeunt., Bertha, l., Matilda, r. 

Enter Bob Summer and Kate, rear c, across the bridge. 

Kate. I do declare,* Robert, you have given me quite a 
chase {holding a bouquet of wild grasses and water lilies), 
and I am quite out of breath ; and you came near drowning 
your Kate. 

Bob. Kate, you lost your breath! Why, dearest, I will 
replevy it from the violets and sweet-scented flowers. If I 
can't recover it the fields will smell sweeter than ever. 
And as for drowning you, Kate Spring, how could a bab- 
bling Spring be hushed in water? Your jets {caressing her 
hair) will float in the air long after these wild grasses will 
be as tame as your lover. 

Kate. Tliey {looking at the grasses) will bear wild oats 
forever, then. Why, here we are on the Landscape Gar- 
dener's grounds. It's a splendid place to make love. 

Bob. " Love thoughts be rich when canopied with 
bowers." 

Kate. I want you to answer me one question. Do you 
think Miss Eoseallen so very, very beautiful? 

Bob. Why, no, Kate; and yet we must confess her love- 
liness. " But what care I how fair she be." Kate alone is 
my nonpareil. Why do you ask me? 

Kate. Because I heard you on the yacht say something 
to her that almost meant so — about Venus, and the sea, and 
some nonsense. {Laughs.) What did you mean when you 
drove old Mr. Willoughby away from Frank and Julia by 
singing that horrid song just as you were drinking your 
claret? 



46 

Bob. {Sings:) 

" Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes ! ;■ 

And here's to the nymph with but one, sir!" 

Oil, tliat was to give a chance to the Doctor to feel Jtilia's 
pulse without giving the old gent an opportunity to tell 
Frank that Julia had entirely recovered, and that he might 
discontinue his visits. That's all. Ha! ha! 

Kate. You do plague the old gent's life almost out of 
him. Yet he seems to like yon. But everybody likes you, 
Kobert. Do you really love me? 

Bob. Why do you dun me? It is the only suit {laugh- 
ing) for which I was ever able to pay with all my heart. 
Here {pointing to his heart) my wealth is fabulous. The 
tenant is always a rich lodger, while the lower apartments 
I confess are sometimes empty. 

Kate. But the attic {patting his head) is filled with 
salt. 

Bob. a salt, I trust, Kate, that will soon cure me of all 
my follies. I am almost sad when I think of my penury ; but 
my craft is young, and I crowd on all sail to get clear as 
soon as possible of the fog of poverty to schoon in an open, 
clear sea, laden with a full freight of honest learning. 

Kate. When the head and heart's right, dear Kobert — 

Bob. Our heels will always carry us to green pastures, 
and beside still waters. 

(Bob Tnakes motions to go, and then fools Kate, who fol- 
lows hinn up.) 

Kate. For whither thou goest I will go. * * * Thy 
people shall be my people. * * * Where thou diest — 

Bob. Hush ; you make me nervous. I always thought 
Ruth meant that as a threat. It gives a fellow no chance 
for a Utah divorce. 

Kate. Robert, it is getting late. If we're going to look 
in at Mrs. Cummings', we must get along. 



47 

Bob. Kate, come here and see tlie evening: star. It has 
just peeped out through its rosy vaiL See, it looks like a 
diamond distilled from the blushes of twilight. (Bob looks 
down on her face as she looks itp.) Darling, the dew is 
falling on the roses and these tulips. {Kissing her.) 

Kate. {Breaking from hiin.^ and wiping her mouth as 
if she liked it) Yes, Bob; you made me see more stars 
than one. She runs off, l., a7id hefollov^s. 

Enter Bertha, l. c. 

Bertha. It is now time that Matilda should leave the 
parlor. Here she comes. [Enter Matilda, r.] It is now 
the hour that I promised the messenger that I would visit 
him, to learn from him the history of your hero. It is 
time I should go, Matilda. 

Matilda. I only wish I could attend you; the night is 
so very beautiful, and I am so nervous when I am alone. 
The wind is gentle, and the halo around the moon gives 
her a softer aspect than last night's splendor. 

Bertha. I, too, am timid; yet for your dear sake would 
I walk through more perils than grasshoppers and crickets 
can surround me. 

Matilda. Well, Bertha, if I can't be your companion, 
I'll remain here at my lattice till you return. 

Bertha. I fear that since you have found so much 
mystery and interest in the garden, you prefer it to the 
dancing hall. Remember, my lady, our first mother found 
but little good in listening to a tempter in the garden. 
Forbidden fruit costs us dear. 

Matilda. I have found more snakes in the drawine:- 
room than could people an Eden such as this. 

Bertha. We'll go in, young lady, and I will start on 
my gossiping errand. 

(Matilda goes to the lattice and waves her handkerchief t- 



48 

at Bertha, who goes toward the hridge and crosses its 
planks^ slowly.) 

Matilda. I fear dear Bertha may fall. It is the first 
time that she has ever ventured across the bridge at night, 
and its planks are very treacherous. 

(Bertha stumbles and falls. Matilda rushes to her sup- 
port, and, while hending over^ her, Matilda is seized hy 
Montrose, disguised, with confederates. She gives a slight 
shriek, and faints, and is hurried along hy Montrose, un- 
conscious. The governess gets up and scampers off. As 
Montrose hears Matilda from the hridge and across the 
stage, L. G. strikes him to the earth,' he holds her in one 
arm, and with the other strikes another roiigh. One rotigh 
strikes the L. Gr. with a club, oAid then Jlees into the thicket.) 

L. G. A knavish piece of work; but it failed. Lad}^ 
how is it with you? 

Matilda. Oh, nothing. You have done nothing in 
saving me if poor Bertha lies drowned in the brook; and 
that blood that flows down your face may be the dear price 
of my safety. (Matilda starts up to save her friend.) 

L. G. Content yourself, fair lady; my wound is but a 
scratcli. And as for your companion, I saw her rise with- 
out assistance, and with a spry foot return to the house, far 
more sprightly than when she wiled you over the bridge. 

Matilda. {Recognizes the L. G., and withdraws her- 
self entirely from him.) Oh, mercy ! you here, and my 
deliverer! What must I do? We cannot tarry here longer 
together. Bertha will report my danger to my father and 
his guests, and they will soon be in pursuit of me. And 
what would they say to find us together? Have you sought 
my father? 

L. G. I^ot yet. I called at his door; but when I thought 
of what answer I would make to his question, what brought 
me to him, I blushed to think of what my heart would bid 



49 

my tongue tell liim. It was not shame, but pride, that 
made me blush. I could not bear to tell my story, with a 
beggar's portion. He might misunderstand me. 
Matilda. We must be strangers, then. Farewell! 

(Matilda leaves him^ and he retires through wood hower. 
Bertha returns to her mistress.) 

Matilda. Sore stunned you must have been, good Ber- 
tha, when you saw not my peril. Surely, it is impossible. 
Did you not see your own Matilda carried off by men ? 
Yet why do I put that question? Surely it is sufficient to 
satisfy me that my dear friend was insensible and ignorant 
of my fate, when she has failed to rouse my father to my 
rescue. 

Bektha. Carried away by men, darling, and I ignorant 
of the base treachery ! Oh, Matilda, I am petrified ! Where 
were you carried to, and who are the ruffians? Knew you 
anything of them ? Doubtless of the gardener's " ku-klux " 
knights in disguise. Speak, love, and relieve the beating 
heart of your old friend, 

Matilda. Oh, no. Bertha, lead me to this seat, and I 
will tell you all. It was indeed he who rescued me; he 
whose angelic countenance has so long hovered over me in 
my hours of retirement and in my dreams. You know he 
first saw me sleeping in my bower. Since then his face has 
got into my mind by the power of its beauty. Oh, how 
true I cherished it as the face of the beautiful hero of my 
histories; often limed it on the air by the fragrant pencil of 
my fancy; dreamed of it and wept, as the light of day 
chased away the beloved form, and left me only in its place 
the things of ordinary life — the countenances of the smart 
beaux of Newport. 

Bertha. A lucky knight, my lady, who timely shows 
his head at a lady's bower, and as timely saves her from the 
hands of kidnapers. 
7 



50 

Matilda. Oh, do not speak so of him. He is humble, 
and knows as well as I that we can never be united. I'll 
never see him more. Would that I had never seen him, or 
that I were fated to see him ever. 

Beetha. [Suspiciously.) Have you no suspicion who 
the treacherous caitiifs were who would steal my darling? 

Matilda. None whatever. But, Bertha, my best and 
truest friend, you must endeavor to learn for me some intel- 
ligence of my deliverer; for though he can never stand in 
any other relation to me, I would wish to know more of one 
whose image I treasure up iii my heart, even as the miser 
does the number which forms the index of his wealth. The 
widow loves the grave of her departed husband, and bedews 
it with tears, and carries away with her again the image of 
him she leaves to the worms. He is to me as the entombed 
lover. Life and death are not more distant than the pride 
of the Koseallens and the humility of the poor; but his 
name may become as the graven letters of the monumental 
stone — I may weep over %mm, , 

Bertha. I fear that I have made a poor scout. Once I 
failed in my commission, and a watery grave had nearly 
been my reward. Take my advice, and seek him out no 
farther. If it is ordained that you should forget him, you 
should banish him from your mind. Think of him no more 
than you would the bird that whirs past you into the wood, 
that has a pretty feather in its tail. 

Matilda. Oh, Bertha, that ignorance will not be bliss to 
me; but I must hasten to ma, and tell her of the danger 
and escape. 

Bertha. Yes; and of the handsome rescuer. But here 
she comes. 

Enter Mrs. Roseallen. 

Mrs. Roseallen. Why, Matilda, I have been in search 
of you. Where could you have been ? My dear, the night 



61 

air, I fear, will give jou cold. We missed you from the 
parlor. Your father has just received a note that Mr. Yan- 
derpelt will breakfast with us in the morning, and will 
expect you to be one 'at the table, as he has something par- 
ticular to say to you, which something your pa and ma both 
hope will be received by you with all graciousness. Come, 
child, why do you tremble? You are nervous. Bertha, 
please see Miss Roseallen to her bed. Bertha, she has 
fainted! 

Enter Bob Summer and Kate, l. 

Tableau! 

Bertha. Matilda. Mother. 
Kate. Summer. 

; END OF act m. 



ACT IV. 

Scene. — Parlor. Evening dancing party. Present, 
Old Willoughby, Bartlett, Frank Merrilie, Bob 
Summer, Clarence, Arthur, Charles, Walter, Julia, 
Kate, Yiolet, et al. 

Charles. Mr. Willoughby, when we dance or sing, or 
you or Bob Summer| says something that's good, may we 
laugh ? 

Willoughby. I know it ain't respectable to laugh. They 
don't do that sort of a thing at Newport. Fashionable 
people only raise their eyebrows, and smile with their eye- 
lids, and shrug their shoulders. Egad! my wife made me 
practice it half an hour a day for a month. 

Bob. When Mr. Willoughby cracks a joke we can't help 
it. Flea, duress; verdict, couldn't be helped, it was so 
funny. 

Clarence. There used to be a grii^niug club in London, 
in Queen Anne's time; but that died of the blues in our 
own. 

Arthur. What would Newport say if it heard that we 
had laughed in society? 

Charles. Or that we had said a witty thing? 

Frank. Or saved a man's life without first inquiring 
whether he wore a coat of arms, on the crest of the wave? 

Walter. What did you say, doctor, about a coat of — 
what ? 

Bartlett. A mere slip of the tongue. "No more of 
that, Hal, as thou love'st me," doctor! 

Julia. The truth is, our party is so small that I think 
we can trust them with their own secret. We may be rustic 
for a summer's eve. 

YiOLET. Why, when I first came here I thought ma had 



53 

brought me to see the tombs of Egypt. Every house was 
as silent as the grave. 

Maria. And one don't get a ghost of a chance to enter, 
unless he, she or it is as rich as Mr. Vanderpelt. Like a 
first-class theatre, you must pay at the door for admittance. 

Kellie. Or be as impertinent as Eob Summer. 

Mrs. Cummings. Young ladies, if it were ever known 
that two or more persons were gathered together here for a 
dance, without an invite on perfumed satin, dated at least 
ten days previously, delivered by a powdered footman, 
drawn by a coachman with 

Bob. a whitewashed fence on both sides of his chops, a 
black band around his hat, like Mr. Mould, with a tiger whose 
legs look like bull-frogs, and eyes like hobby-horses 

Clarence. The glory of the Willoughby star in the 
firmament of fashion would go out like a Fourth of July 
balloon. 

Arthur. It was only by a lucky accident that a dis- 
tinguished family, returned from France, obtained an entre 
into good society, a few seasons ago. 

Bob. Which lucky accident was no other than their 
thoroughbreds running away; their coachman was killed. 
This established at once the mettle of the horses and the 
family. 

Frank. The only unlucky thing about the affair was, 
that although I ran a mile, to be the first to get the subject, 
the poor fellow was dead ere I could feel his pulse. 

Walter. But, doctor, what did your friends say to see 
you running after a runaway ? 

Julia. The doctor was incog. — he was afoot. No one 
is ever recoginised at Newport afoot. 

Servants enter with wine. 
Charles. The ruby laughing in this wine is not redder, 
or sparkles less to me, than your lips. {Speaking to Violet.) 



54 

YioLET. Yet, unlike my lips, it will give you words of 
folly. 

Bob. I always follow the advice of Sir William Temple. 
The first glass for myself, the second for my friend, the 
third for good humor, and the fourth for my enemies. 

Kate. I am afraid that you oftener sacrifice yourself to 
your enemies than toast yourself or friends. I am not yet 
convince^l that the fourth bowl did not keep you away from 
the picnic. 

Bob. Oh, no, dear Kate. I was on horseback, compos- 
ing before breakfast my great play of Newport, in six acts. 

Clarence. (Aside.) Bob doesn't usually get his break- 
fast 'til some one asks him out to dine. 

Lizzie. But how could you compose so heavy a play on 
so light a stomach? 

Bob. Easily done, my fair satirist. You summon the 
modiste'/ 

Kate. How charming! 

Bob. The milliner! 

Violet. A lovely idea! i. 

Bob. The tailor! 

Arthur. A jolly suggestion! 

Bob. The upholsterer! 

Old W. Satin and gilt. Farewell, the buskined stage. 

Bob. The artist! 

Bartlett. An inspiration! 

Bob. The Florist! 

Mrs. C. Nosegays and night- blooming cereus. 

Bob. The musician ! ■* 

Clarence. Drums and fiddlesticks. 

Bob. And then consult the old masters for a tableau 
to finish up each act. {All, encore, encore.) And if the 
plot is as dull as the times, and the wit as flat and dark as 
the poles, your play is a success. 

Frank M. It requires one thing more, Bob. Like the 
wine we drink, it must be of foreign importation, and the 



I! 



56 

older the vice, like the wine, the more it is prized. There 
are play tipplers as well as wine tipplers. 

Nellie. I was told, by a lady of fashion, that we misses 
were only expected to lan<^h at what we had been taught to 
blush, and only to blush at finding ourselves too modest to 
laugh. 

Julia. Fashion tells us only to smile at vice. A hearty 
laugh at an innocent jest is the worst kind of ill-breedinf>-. 
For my part, I shall always prefer those plays which set my 
mind to a merry music, by which I can find a good partner 
in truth and morality. They may not waltz so brilliantly, 
but then they give a pink to the cheek, which is the 
blush of innocence and health, and not that of vice and 
excitement. 

Walter. Gentlemen, let's try one of those moral waltzes. 

{Bow to their mates, and swing off to the Newport vmltz^ 
with figures, music and dance composed for the play. 
Set^ant enters and announces to Mr. Willoughby that 
Miss RosEALLEN has heen kidnaped near the grounds.) 

Old Willoughby. Gentlemen, what news is this ? Great 
Heavens! The groom says that Col. Montrose is killed. 
Bertha drowned, the gardener wounded, and Miss Roseallen 
kidnaped; that the Colonel now lies on the lawn. 

{All make for the lawn.) Exuent. 

Enter Mr. Yandekpelt and Miss Eoseallen, e. 

Mk. Vanderpelt. Indeed, you surprise me. Miss Rose- 
allen. Those nearest you gave me to understand that your 
heart was perfectly free, and your hand wholly disengao-ed. 
It was my hope to make you the head of my establishment. 
An establishment as well appointed as the richest in the 
land. Instead of asking a dowry from your father, it was 
my intention to present my wife, on her wedding day, with 
a mansion house and all of its contents, together with as 
fine a turnout as was ever stabled in our city, to go and 



56 

come when and where she pleased; added to this a private 
allowance of ten thousand 

Matilda. Pray, Mr. Yanderpelt, spare me these details. 
They cannot possibly interest me. They may your wife, 
upon her wedding day. 

Yanderpelt. Perhaps my plainness and directness may 
oifend you ; but, Miss Roseallen, I am a business man, with 
all the words imply. A clear proposition, direct and to the 
purpose, is one of the first accomplishments of a good mer- 
chant. I think this ought to hold good in the affairs of 
love, as well as those of business. 

Matilda. Mr. Yanderpelt, I am perfectly conscious of 
the honor you intended me, and I hope I am sufficiently 
flattered and grateful. I respect you character, and am not 
surprised at your wealth. 

Yanderpelt. Yes, my credit is A No. 1, and my house 
is very solvent. May I consider that you will turn the mat- 
ter over in you mind, and let me hear from you by due course 
of mail, or shall I wait for a reply from yourself in person? 

Matilda. I think I have been sufficiently explicit. I 
may say, out of the respect to my dear parents' wishes, that 
I believe all your wares to be solid and in demand. {Laugh- 
ing^ I believe these words are the currency in trade, 
but your market here {'pointing to Tier heart) is without 
consumers. 

Yandereelt. I am sure of one thing, that you will find 
more true happiness with a man of wealth, without the 
fashionable book learning that young ladies think so fine, 
than with a poor bankrupt, with nothing to feed and clothe 
you except fine thoughts. 

Matilda. My lover must be a lover, and his fine thoughts 
must only be the advance guard to glorious actions. He 
must not eat the lotus, but drink deep of the well springs 
of human action ; great thoughts made great things by a 
man of noble spirit. 

Yanderpelt. I do not quite understand you, but I care 



57 

very little for anything to eat or drink while a negotiation 
is pending. May I take my leave ? 

Matilda. Adieu. (Yanderpelt hoios out, r.) I must 
appear very cruel and unkind, I know; and it almost breaks 
my heart to disappoint poor pa and ma. They have 
always been so kind to me. It is the only thing I could 
refuse them. But instinct teaches us to find our mate as it 
does all other living creatures. As well might the black- 
bird be compelled by its sooty parent to wed the hawk, and 
expect to find happiness, as for me to wed this lion of the 
Stock Exchange and love him, as he has a right to expect, 
from my bridal vow. 

Exit Matilda, r. 

Enter Bertha, r., and Montrose, l. 

Montrose. I can endure this no longer. 

Bertha. What, you here ? 

Montrose. Yes; I find the family has gone for a drive ' 
to the fort, and was too impatient to see you to wait. That 
southern rebel has crossed my path and filched my game 
while it was in my springes. Bertha, I'll be revenged on 
the dog and make him grub in the earth for something else 
than flowers. 

Bertha. But what did yon mean to do ? You did not 
mean to kidnap Matilda. AVe will be caught and punished. 

Montrose. Did Matilda suspect who were her assailants ? 

Bertha. Ko, indeed; and I trembled for all my life, 
and tried to throw suspicion on the gardener. 

Montrose. But she knew differently. 

Bertha. Yes; and is more desperately in love with him 
than ever. If you expect to ever gain Matilda, you must 
get the gardener out of her way. 

Montrose. That must be thought of hereafter. Let me 
see, I will have old Koseallen forbid him to throw himself 
in the way of his daughter. The fellow is as high toned 
as Sir Charles Grandison, and is as firey as Hector or Hot- 
spur. He will keep away; besides, the blow he got in the 



58 

fray has laid him out for at least six weeks, and perhaps 
may prove his quietus. In the meantime I will invent some 
story that will make the coast clear. Of two things am I 
now resolved — Revenge on this impecunious intruder, and 
to have Matilda, though I should have to dive wrist deep in 
her lover's blood. 

Beetha. You must now leave me, for I hear them. The 
carriages have arrived. In the meantime I will ward off 
all suspicions ; will sympathize with her, and keep the track 

of her secret. 

JExuent, Bertha, k., Montkose, l. 

Enter Matilda, r., with her bonnet in her hand and 
throws herself on a sofa, her head resting on her hands., 
and in meditation. 

Enter Mrs. Roseallen, k. 

Mrs. R. Matilda, you have your father much offended. 
The expectation indulged in by him, that you would accept 
the hand of Mr. Yanderpelt, has been as soothing medicine 
to a mind sick almost to desperation. Every emotion of 
his heart is bound up in love of you, and pride for the 
honor of his name. Your father is not avaricious, nor I 
ambitious; nor would we sacrifice your happiness for any 
earthly motive. 'Tis not that honor or riches are to be 
won, but dishonor and loss of caste is to be averted ; that 
makes it necessary that you should wed this millionaire. 
Consider your father's gray hairs, his sensitive nature, his 
fear of humiliation, and then, like the fair daughter of Is- 
rael, kiss the hand that you believe wounds you. I know 
my daughter's spirit and principle; I can calculate upon 
them. I ask you not to wed for distinction, wealth, or sta- 
tion, although all these are things to be desired. I know 
that you would spurn them if your heart did not espouse 
the giver; but think rather on the good you may do and 
the evil you can avert to tiiose precious to you, and who 
gave you life and trained up your mind in fadeless gems of 
loveliness. I do not command you; I only entreat. 



59 

Matilda. {Throws herself in her 7nother''s arms and 
sobs.) Mother! mother! mother! I can wrong myself. Like 
Jephthah's daughter, I can give up my jlife without a sigh, 
save to leave you all, for the sake of duty. But my dear 
father's examj^le and my mother's precepts have ever taught 
me that tliere is no possible ill so great as that where self- 
respect dies with the ruin. I shall ever be obedient to your 
will, and pray heaven that it may open some other way to 
save you and bless me. Mercy! what shall I do? I care 
nothing for worldly splendor, though surrounded by such 
since first my eyes knew what it meant. Kind and gra- 
cious heaven ! give us strength to bear our present lot, if in 
poverty, with independence and content; if in prosperity, 
humility and loving charity! Dear mother, things may 
yet be better than they seem. {Embracing her mother.) 

Mes. E,. God bless you, my child; and may we learn 
wisdom from thy chaste and innocent lips. 

Exit Mother, k. 

Enter Bertha, k. c. 

(Matilda turns and throws herself into her arms, and 
sobs.) 

Bertha. Do not weep, my dearest darling; my heart 
almost breaks for you. I feel as if you were again my 
pretty child, with sunny face and amber-lighted ringlets, 
come to my arms to tell me that some mishap had over- 
taken your favorite doll. Then the eyes dropped plenteous 
tears ; now the bosom rises and falls, and the heart beats as if 
this little delicate body would end its being. {Aside.) I can- 
not longer deceive her. {Aloud.) Matilda, bear up. Your ride 
has fatigued you. Evening isjust coming on, and the moon 
is just rising. {Goes to the window.) See this fair paint- 
ing spread before you — the long, dark shadows of the wood 
lying by the side of bright moonlit plats of green. Thus, 
darling, is life ever checkered. AVhat, darling, no words, 
only sobs? Can't I make you think of something else? 



60 

Well, there ! (Matilda lays her head upon Bertha's hosom.) 
Cry yourself to sleep, little baby. 

{Serenade on flute ^ air^ the Love Song^ heard from the 
hower.) 

Enter Mrs. Roseallen, r. 

Mrs. R. Forgive me, my darling child. {Kneels by her 
side and raises Matilda's hajid to her lips.) God bless 
you, Matilda, and may He who stilled the waves stretch out 
His hand to save. 

END OF ACT IV. 






ACT V. 

Scene. — RoseallerCs Garden. Landscape Gardener'' s 
cottage in rear. Landscape Gakdenek, with head hound 
in handkerchief, sits in grief. 

Enter Frank, from cottage. 

Fkank. Well, Terapleton, it's all over witli poor Adam, 
He died blessing your mother and you. 

L. G. The last link is broken that bound me to the old 
plantation. The pitcher is bi-oken at the fountain. {Shows 
great emotion; rises and comes foi'ioard.) Doctor, you 
can hardly understand my feelings at this moment. That 
faithful old servant is so associated with my childhood, my 
boyhood, and my manhood, in our prosperity, destitution, 
and wanderings, that it almost tears out my very heart-strings 
at parting with him. The goodness of this swarthy slave 
shone like a candle upon my head, and by its light I 
walked through darkness. It was his honest nature, faith- 
ful and true, that watched over me and mine, and followed 
my poor mother to the North to search out her prisoner 
boy, and asked no other wages but a smile and a " Well, 
Adam, how are you, to-day?" All the high and lofty ones 
have dealt treacherously with us, but this weak, decrepit 
old man has been as the rock. This sable face is to me 
whiter than those brought up in scarlet. Farewell, dear 
servant! Faithful friend, farewell! T^^e dear remem- 
brancer of our once happy home and county, farewell! 
Our fathers have sinned and are not. Our servants rule 
over us. Our crime has fallen upon our head. Woe unto 
us that we have sinned! But the Lord wall not cast us off 
forever. But, though He doth cause us grief, yet will He 
have compassion according to the multitude of His mer- 
cies. 



62 

Frank.. A sorrowing friend is the best willow that can 
weep over tlie grave of virtue, whether that angel dwelt in 
a white or black skin. 

L. G. Give the poor fellow as decent a burial as our 
purse can afford, and I will go. Doctor, to my mother, to 
aid her in crossing the hands of gentle old Adam. 

Frank. {^Approaching to assist Templeton.) Come, jou 
must not grieve so. Your present health makes you im- 
pressible. He who has just given you Matilda has taken 
from you Adam. He gives and He takes away. Yet, such 
drops are medicine to you. Tears shed by the generous 
over the grave of the faithful sparkle into the brightest 
chrysolites that blaze around the great White Throne. 

(Frank leads the L. G. to the cottage door.) Exeunt. 
Cottage shifted. 

Enter Matilda and Bertha, r. 

Matilda. It is now three nights since he was in the 
wood. My silence and indifference have but ill repaid his 
services and his passion. The sound of the Hute has been 
to me the voice of hope breaking through the clouds of 
despair. Oh, Bertha! my sense of duty to my parents and 
the honor of our name have so nearly perished amidst the 
persecutions of Mr. Vanderpelt that I could now feel it no 
crime to throw myself into the Landscape Gardener's arms, 
and seek, in his humble worth, the protection I cannot find 
in my own home. 

Bertha. Wisely spoken, my beautiful child? My own 
blood boils with the passion of youth, and almost drives 
from my heart the gratitude I owe your parents, as I 
witness this persecution of the sweetest young lady in the 
land. The arms of Colonel George Templeton, the son of 
the widow, can as well defend his bride as the proudest man 
who ever wore epaulets. 



63 

Matilda. Is that the name of my preserver, Bertha? 
How came you by the knowledge? Speak and relieve me, 
that I may be certain to whom I owe ray life, or my honor, 
and to whom I, unworthy, thankless, ungrateful being that I 
am, have not since then vouchsafed one solitary look or word 
of thanks or gratitude. But what said you of his health? 
He was wounded for me. Alas! has adverse fate another 
evil in store for a daughter of affliction ? 

Bertha. For your sake, my child, I traced out this man. 
But oh! that I should have to add another sorrow to the 
woe-worn child of my early affection ! He is ill. A wound 
he received in a fray has become, by ill-treatment and expo- 
sure, the heart of a fever that has eaten into the heart of 
life. 

Matilda. And he will die for me, killed by the second 
and severest wound of ingratitude! With death on him, 
received in my defense, has he nightly visited the bower of 
his ungrateful mistress, who never, even by the movement 
of her evening lamp, showed that she heard his strains or 
understood their meaning. That countenance, weeping with 
blood, yet beautiful through his life-stream, flowing for me, 
will haunt me through the short span that misery may allow 
me. Would to God that I had returned one token as a mark 
of gratitude, if not of love! Bertha, I must see this man 
who holds in his hands the issues of my destiny. 

Bertha. And you will, good child. But, should death 
deprive you of this refuge, may we not think of some other 
means of saving you from this forced, abhorred match with 
this rich suitor? Col. Alex, Montrose, whom your father 
has dismissed, loves you, and will give you that care which 
your heart so much requires. 

Matilda. Bertha, do not mention that wretch's name to 
me. He is a slanderer and a vile coiner of falsehood! 

Bertha. Are you able to wander so far as the cemetery, 
and near to the cottage of Widow Templeton? 



64 

Matilda. A bleeding head did not keep him from my 
wood bower;- a bleeding heart shall not prevent me seeing 
him before he dies. 

(Matilda and Bertha walk to an angle of the stage in 
rear.) 

Bertha. See you the little rustic cottage yonder, just 
beside the grave yard? It looks out on to the sea. 

Matilda. Oh, yes. Its beauty and romantic appear- 
ance has made it a wonder and attraction to all who visit 
Newport. It is on our grounds; father visits it daily. 

Bertha. The smoke from its chimney is curling around 
the mist clouds; but there is a darker mist within, and no 
sun to send a beam of health through it. 

Matilda. And, humble as it is, compared with these 
lordly mansions, and gloomy as it may be within, I could 
ever seek there the peace I cannot feel in the proud halls 
of Roseallen Place. There are no forced marriages under 
the roofs of cottages. 

Bertha. But there is death in the lodge as well as in the 
palace. 

Matilda. Gracious heaven! what do I see? A group 
of people that look like mourners. It is a funeral! See! 
they are moving toward the church yard. Bertha, who is 
dead? 

Bertha. Come, come, now; we have seen enough. 

Matilda. There is a marriage with death; it endures 
forever. Bertha, I can endure my woe no longer. Death 
or madness will be my doom if I am forced into this aw- 
ful marriage. What of George Templeton? Did you not 
promise me to inquire for his health? Were we not to 
visit him when my strength permitted? Tell me — -tell me, 
have you heard how he is? 

Bertha. He is well, my lady — better than either you 
or I. 



65 

Matilda. Bless you! bless you, dear Bertha! {Throw- 
ing her arms around the neck of Bertha.) . Then there is 
some chance left for me. I may yet be saved from that 
dreadful doom. I would trust to the honor of that man, 
who has already saved it, with my life. Ah! if he is well 
I may yet expect those sweet tones which soften the grief 
that Sits like a relentless tyrant upon my heart. Why not, 
Bertha, go right to him? 

Bertha. It was his corpse that they just now bore by 
us. (Matilda siooons in her arms and revives.) Alas, 
poor young lady, let me lead you in. {Aside.) It is cruel. 
This is love, indeed, but a holy love. It makes her sacred; 
mine has but made me miserable and wicked. 

Exeunt., r. o, 

' ' Enter Julia, l. 

• Julia. It is the most singular thing in the world about 
the report of Miss Boseallen's abduction. No one seems to 
know^ anything about it, although our coachman saw the 
whole affair. The Roseallens ignore the whole matter. It 
seems so strange that Mrs. Roseallen should seek to compel 
Matilda to marry Mr. Yanderpelt, when she avows her dis- 
inclination to marry her husband — that is to be. Oh, dear, 
I am so glad that pa was brought over to let Frank come to 
the house, and to promise me that if he succeeds in his pro- 
fession he shall have me to divide its honors. Mercy on 
me! why donH Frank come? He is always late; and I 
promised Miss Roseallen that I would take him over and 
introduce him to her. Perhaps I could get her father to 
ask Frank to prescribe for poor Matilda's spirits. If they 
are low, I feel that Frank's spirits will be correspondingly 
high at securing such a fashionable connection. I wonder 
if he could not discover some very select remedies for very 
select society? If he only makes them believe s'o, it will 
give him a high standing in his profession. Qh! here he 
comes; I know his step. 
9 



Enter Frank, from across the hridge. 

Frank. Better late tlian never. But the truth is, I have 
a patient, and have just lost another. Poor fellow! About 
a M^eek airo I liad an errand over to the cottao-e of our fair 
widow, Mrs. Cunimings; and on my way back I was hasten- 
ing hither, when a rustic cottage — a miracle of bean fry — 
attracted my attention, and I could not but stay and admire 
and wonder at the taste of the occupant, whoever he might 
be, when I heard from within the moan of one who suffers 
in his sleep; and while I stood half in curiosity and half in 
admiration at the neatness and refinement of this humble 
home, a motherly woman came to tha door. Her troubled 
countenance at once told a story of sickness or grief As 
she noticed me, she at ffrst thought to withdraw herself, 
then hesitating, she addressed me with, "My kind sir, 
where does the nearest doctor or surgeon live? " I answered^ 
" Madam, one now stands before you. and will gladly tender 
his services, if they can be accepted. Pray, what can I do 
for you?" She looked earnestly into my face, as if ques- 
tioning whether one so young could be trusted in a case of 
surgery, and then humbly said, "M}'' son lies sick of a 
wound; please examine it." I entered the cotter's room in 
an instant, and found stretched upon a bed, whose trappings 
rivaled the whiteness of the mountain, snow, a young man 
of the most herculean proportions; his limbs knit together 
with a neatness that at once promised grace and manly 
strength. No classic sculptor has ever given us a liner 
figure of robust manhood, joined to that elegance of pro- 
portion which gives to its possessor grace of motion. As 
he lay upon his couch, with his bosom opened to view, his 
shirt rolling from it on either side, I noticed a deep scar, 
taken, as he told me, in the battle of "Bull's Pun " fro:n a 
bayonet stab. I found that the wound from which he was 
then sufferino; was received from a club or staff* — a severe 
contusion on the head, severe, but easily managed. I knew 



G7 

by the pulse that my patient was suiferin^^ more from per- 
turbation of mind than from tlie eifects of the wound, and 
that a nervine would soon restore him to repose. After 
administering -one, I left him, at times delirious, talking 
wildly of flowers and a lady-love, ruffians, villains, and then 
of the deadly strife of the battle-lield — 

" Of prisoners' ransom, and of soldiers slain. 
And all the currents of a heady tight." 

And then some love thr)ughts, fresh and beautiful as morn- 
ing violets. Poor fellow ! I was afraid " Armeidis de Gaul " 
and Cei'vantes had made his big, manly head mad with 
some hopeless passion. I proposed to visit him that same 
evening, and I then hoped to learn something of my 
wounded hero. 

Julia. Oh, that's the home of the landscape gardener 
who designed and made these grounds we admired so much 
at the picnic. We all had hoped to see him, and to have 
contrived ,to make him one of our company. Curiosity is 
on tip-toe to peep into his little sanctuary. I wonder who 
could have harmed him ? 

Frank. jNo matter. I have been tending him for a 
week, and he is getting better. 

Julia. In spite of your treatment? 

Frank. Hush, Julia! And I have become so inter- 
ested in him that I have learned to love him. He had a 
poor slave, Adam, who was as much devoted to him as was 
•'Corporal Trim" to my uncle "Toby," and with as good a 
reason. George Templeton is at once the noblest and ten- 
derest of men; as gentle as a mother's love, and as faithful 
as a mother's heart — a soldier and a lover! Well, this 
poor black took sick of a fever, and no angel ever shielded 
from harm as did the landscape gardener and his kind, good 
mother this dying servant. In spite of their nursing and 
my skill tlie poor fellow died; and although Templeton is 
poor, he spared nothing to give his faithful domestic a fitting 



68 

funeral. Now, this is the secret that I have heen keeping 
from joii, and making you so jealous; and it is my interest 
in George Templeton that prompted me to ask of you an 
introduction to Miss Matilda Roseallen. 

Julia. Well, Frank, you are a good, kind-hearted fellow, 

« and I won't be jealous any more. Wait a moment, and I 

will put my hat and gloves on, and go with you to call 

upon the belle of ]^ewport; and while on the way, to satisfy 

a woman's curiosity, it is only a little walk to the "front. 

Exeunt. 

(Matilda, about to visit the grave yard and throvi 
herself on the grave, looks out from an angle of the 
stage, l. c, toward the grave yard.) 

Matilda. My heart is so big with grief that it chokes 
out every fear; yet mine eyes are backward cast, and great 
beads of sweat do stand at each shadow moving to and fro. 
Those monumental sentinels of the dead do in the moon- 
light look like sheathed ghosts, and at the echo of each rus- 
tling leaf I startle. Oh, how I loved this man, when in- 
fatuation can take me there in spite of all these fears! I 
shudder while I pray. Heaven save me! This pilgrimage 
is the only penance I know. If a maiden's tears could 
quench the fire that now burns within my heart, then would 
I shed tears as fast as ever fell from April cloud. No, it 
cannot be. Like the pelican, I must suck the wound until I 
die of love. Spirit of my beloved, look down from the 
chaste heavens, and before this altar — thy grave — receive 
my penitence. Let the light of thy countenance shine upon 
my sorrowing soul. To die without one word of gratitude, 
a look of love — neglected by her whom thou didst die to 
save — her who loved thee so. You whose goodness lit up 
her soul with such a liglit that all its hills and valleys 
smiled with gladness — {sobs) — but must smile no more for- 
ever. [My soul is heav}^; and will be until with thee it rests 
in Elysium. My desire would dig thee u-p again, if thought 



69 

did not teacli me that greater grief, to see tliee dead and 
changed, would ahiiost kill me. Look down from the foot- 
stool of mercy and forgive me. In pity do this, that 1 may 
bear my cross, {Sohs.) Teach me to say, " Thy will be 
done." My only peace is to look up to thee. Lift me for 
the sake of her desolate, that I may be her daughter and 
her comforter. God give me strength to undertake this 
night's worship! What do my eyes see? Bertha and a 
man dressed in the garb of the villain who attempted my 
abduction! ISTow I see his face! Montrose! I must hide. 
(Matilda retreats to another part of the stage.) And has 
she deceived me? Then there is no refuge for me. Good- 
night, sweet gentleman. {^Looking toward the grave.) The 
dew upon your grave is not more pure than was your heart 
while living. Conceals herself. 

Enter Montkose and Bertha, l. c. 

Montrose. Bertha, this very night must end my sus- 
pense. Matilda in my arms, and death to George Temple- 
ton if he would save her. 

Exeunt, Montrose, l.. Bertha, r. 

Matilda. {Co7ning forward.) I am forsaken on every 
side! George Templeton dead and in his grave; ]>ertha 
faithless! Thus have I lost both friend and lover — the one 
by death, the other by infidelity. My mother still tenderly 
persuading me to that most loathsome to me. My father 
obdurate and almost unkind. Mr. Vanderpelt determined 
and relentless, vexing me with an ardent passion which he 
calls love, but from whose embraces I would fly as from a 
twisting serpent. Tears are denied me, and my heart is 
restless and miserable. 

Enter Servant Maid, r., with Mr. Vanderpelt's card. 

Servant Maid. A gentleman waits for you upon the 
front verandah. He is dressed very smartly, and brings 
you a big bouquet. He came in a splendid carriage. I 
guess he is very rich. 



70 

Matilda. Tell the gentleman to excuse me. I am very 
indisposed, and cannot possibly receive any company to-day. 
(Servant retires.) Is there no hope, no snccor ? How can I, 
who am in the deepest despair and misery, entertain anght 
save my own weeping thoughts? Solitude is the only friend 
who can sit beside me and my own bitter fancies; the only 
solace I can have in this hour of gloom; the harp of 
grief, like the ^olian of heaven, knows no mortal touch; 
its sounds are saddest and sweetest in the solitude of the 
wood, and grow wild amidst the festivities of the hall. 
Sweet heaven, send thy ministering angel to me, and illu- 
mine my brow with thy own hallowed light! 

Enter Mr. and Mrs. Eoseallen, r. 

(Mrs. R. holds Matilda's hand and strokes her hair.) 

Mr. E. All this will not impose upon us, Matilda. You 
were well last eve when you walked with Bertha, and this 
well-acted fit is intended to remove the impression I enter- 
tain of your perfect ability to receive Mr. Vanderpelt. 
Mark me, Matilda, I will heed you no more if your simu- 
lations were as well acted as those of the wise king of 
Utica. Besides, we have, in your wood bower, a lover. I 
insist, Matilda, you tell me who he is. 

Matilda. {Startles.) {Aside.) Could have Bertha told 
me falsely of his death and burial? {Aloud.) Father, I 
do not know. 

Mr. E,. Is it he with whom you attempted to elope that 
night when Bertha fell on the bridge? 

Matilda. I never attem])ted to elope; but an attempt 
was made to carry me off by some one in disguise, and the 
man now in my wood bower may be he; but I know not. 
{Flute is heard g-iving a serenade. Matilda throws herself 
m her mother'' s arms and 'wee2)s.) Mother, save me! For- 
give me; my heart will break! Whom can I trust? I 
love George Templeton, the gardener, and will go to him if 



71 

it is he. Living I love him. Dying, I'll go to heaven, and 
find that rest denied to me here npon earth. 

(Matilda rushes to the hower, followed by her father, 
mother and Bertha. As they approach a pistol shot is 
heard, and Montrose, holding the pistol, rushes from the 
hower, followed by the Landscape Gardener, who staggers 
out and falls, wounded, at Matilda's feet^ 

L. G. Sweet maiden! Beloved! {Points to his cot- 
tage^ My mother! [Dies, hissing her hand.) 
(Matilda siooons.) 

end of act v. 



ACT VI. 

ScK^^.-^Moseallen^s Parlors^ hrilliantly illuminated^ 
the picnic j^arty — Bob Summers, Bertha, et al. 

Bob. Well, Kate, I think if every wedding had such 
beautiful cut flowers, and such delicious music, it wouldn't 
be poor fun to be invited every Saturday niglit at least. I 
wish they would provide gloves and carriages, as they do to 
the other end of the comedy. 

Kate. I fear, dear Robert, that Miss Eoseallen, in her 
orange blossoms and pearls, is but a cut flower, delicate and 
lovely; but, like the brightest, the soonest to wither and 
crumble. 

Nellie. I saw her yesterday evening, and her hand was 
as cold as marble and her face like alabaster. Her sweet 
voice sounded like the spirit of sadness. 

JniJA. For ray part, I would rather marry the one. I 
truly love than to have the wealth of Midas. 

Clakence. And ever afterward feel as if you wore his 
ears. 

Julia. Why are you so cheerful, Frank? Your spirits 
seem as jocund as a country dance. I should think you 
saw some rainbow to the cloud. 

Chaeles. Frank's looking forward to a larger practice. 
So far he has been called upon only to attend the dying. I 
trust that he now looks forward to tlie more clieerful 
practice of giving sugar-plums to the living. As most 
partnerships end in work for lawyers, so do most weddings 
fees for doctors. Ha! ha! 



73 

Bob. What did 3^011 say about fees for lawyers? Egad! 
this is to be a cheerful wedding after all, if that is to be one 
of the courses. 

Walter. I wonder Yanderpelt is not married privately. 
They say that the bride refuses to receive any wedding 
presents except a bouquet of lilies from the doctor, here. 

Bob. No wedding presents! Then has Cupid come 
again ? 

Lizzie. Yes; and a beautiful thing it is! The flowers 
came from the cottage lately inhabited by the ill-fated 
George Templeton. His spirit must have breathed upon 
them. 

Akthur. a spirit as pure as their own fragrance, and 
as tender as their own lives. Doctor, who arranged them 
for you ? 

Enter Eoseallen, Daughter, Mrs. R. mid Vanderpelt, 
Clergyman, et at. 

Tableau for wedding. 

Clergyman. If any one can show just cause why this 
man and woman may not lawfully be joined together, let 
him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace. 

Enter George Templetqn. 

Geo. Templeton. What God has joined together let no 
man put asunder. I claim by that highest of titles, the 
human heart, this woman to be my bride, and will maintain 
it by all that's right! 

Matilda. Good heavens! George Templeton alive and 
here! {Rushes to and clings to him.) 

Geo. Templeton. Yes, darling, and to save. {Turning 
to M-ATi-LD a' & father.) Sir, I called on you and respectfully 
laid my claim to your friendship and your daughter's. My 
10 



74 

occupation was and is honorable. Wealth or fame it might 
not have promised; competency and content it surely gave. 
You received me with disdain. You reminded me, in my 
lost cause, rebellion was treason and I a traitor. In vain I 
urged upon you my honorable descent, my forefathers' 
splendid services at the birth of our Republic, of the 
sincerity of my intentions, and the fidelity which I owed 
my native State. I asked you to show that magnanimity 
to me, a paroled prisoner and fallen man, that the great 
Grant, when flushed with a victory that will forever gild 
his name, displayed when he poured the greatness of his 
soul upon his peer, the great Lee, crowning him in higher 
immortality ! Yow. bade me leave your house, and see you 
no more. Had this been all, I should have respected your 
commands; but when I learned that you would sell my 
darling for lucre, to one whom she had, with tears and sobs, 
told she could not love, the tie of father and daughter was 
rent in twain. Children should be given in marriage, not 
sold. Then I came to you poor; I now claim her hand, as 
I already hold her heart, rich, and what is best to her and 
me, able to recompense, as I have, the skill of my dear 
physician, Frank Merrilie|, who saved my life; and to pay 
gold and gratitude to a clever lawyer — dear Bob Summer^ 
— through whose aid the government has extended the act 
of amnesty to me, and restored to my mother her fortune. 
And now, Matilda, forgive Mr. Vanderpelt his persecutions, 
and invite him, as we are authorized, to the wedding of Dr. 
Frank Merriliep with Miss Julia Willoughby, Robert Sum- 
mer^, Esq., with Miss Kate Spring, and Col. George 
Templeton with Miss Matilda Roseallen, in the presence of 
all our friends, North and South. 

Fra]!«k. And with Julia for my wife, all will go merrily. 

Bartlett. {Holding Mrs. Cuimnings hy the hand.) 
And may not we make a " Bartlett pair? " 



75 

Bob. And if you smile on our nuptials, I trust this 
beautiful Spring will be the mother of many a " Summer." 

Old W. And, friends, when we see the beauty of the 
North married to the chivalry of the South, " MAY THE 
UNION BE PERPETUAL!" 

Tableau/ 

VANDEKPELT. CLERGYMAN. BEKTHA. 

ET AL. MRS. ROSEALLEN. MR. ROSEALLEN. ET AL. 

B. & K. LANDSCAPE GARDENER & MAITILDA. F. & J. 

BARTLETT & MRS. C. OLD WaLLOUGHBY. CHARLES & VIOLET. 

THE END, 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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